


The Maker's Gifts

by Tacens



Series: The Lyrium Crown [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 03:16:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 59,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2757524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tacens/pseuds/Tacens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carrying a broken heart and the crushing weight of a thousand secrets, Solona Amell discovers a way to end the Taint.  </p><p>A tale of the Warden and her companions, extending far past the Landsmeet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Calm

"So, you understand my dilemma?"

Drawn back from her wandering thoughts, Solona Amell blinked lamely at the Queen.

The pair of women sat in private conference in Arl Eamon's Denerim estate, the Landsmeet looming just days away. Following the Queen's rescue from Arl Howe (and her subsequent betrayal), Anora had managed to lure Solona into the meeting with the promise of aid against her father. So far, the meeting had proven fruitless; Anora made only some half-mention of rumours within the Alienage, instead nattering on and on about her own importance to the nation.

Solona nodded, wanting nothing more than for the meeting to end. She stilled her tapping toes and tried her very best to feign interest.

The Queen carried on, not waiting for further response.

In truth, the Queen had requested Solona's audience almost immediately upon the Wardens' escape from Fort Draken. Battered and bloodied from their ordeal, Solona had managed to avoid Anora for several days. Despite her very best efforts to avoid the meeting entirely, Eamon's constant badgering had eventually worn upon her, and she gone to face the Queen, a bitter taste lingering in her mouth.  

And Maker, but Anora was the least personable human she had ever met! Every careful word that fell from the Queen's mouth sounded as though it was meant for the ears of a child. Solona fought the urge to cringe each time the woman spoke.

Having endured nearly a half-hour of Anora's prattling over lukewarm tea, Solona was ready to snap. Her magic itched upon her palms, protesting its prolonged disuse. No matter how much of the damned tea she drank, the dryness in her throat scratched on, begging for even a few drops of sweet lyrium. Solona was ready to stand up, throw down the cursed teacup, and declare herself a mage of the Circle and a Grey Warden, not some common fool to be led along. She wanted to command that Anora just get to her demands and be done with it.

Instead, she held her tongue and nodded on like that common fool.

The matter was much simpler than Anora would have had her believe. The Queen wanted to keep her crown, but her father was a power-hungry lunatic. And thus, Anora wanted Solona's support in the Landsmeet. That was it. It really _was_ that simple. Of course, that Alistair had the strongest claim never even broached the conversation.

_Alistair_. Solona stifled a sigh at the thought of her lover. He was the heart of the problem, wasn't he? The man who should be king. The man who would give anything _not_ to be king. Solona rubbed her brow and gave another wistful thought to the lyrium potion awaiting her in her chambers. She had no doubt that Alistair could be a brilliant king; his sense of justice was unparalleled and his loyalty was unending. He would do what was right for his people, no matter the cost.

As Anora prattled on about how she would be best for Ferelden, Solona's gaze dropped down to the Queen's hand. The Queen fiddled with her fingers like a hapless Circle Apprentice, picking and pulling at her cuticle. Solona wrinkled her nose.   It was all so ... _unregal_.

With a sigh, Solona continued to nod as Anora carried on and on. In truth, Ferelden seemed to carry on well enough under Anora's rule. If rumours were to be believed, it was supposedly she, and not Cailan, that had run the country for the past five years. Yet, Anora had a ruthless streak - there was no denying it. Solona had seen the glint of vanity and hunger in her eyes.

Was she a perfect queen? No. But was she good enough? Solona pondered for a moment, before deciding. Yes, she supposed she was. Anora would do whatever was best for Ferelden - no matter the cost to its people.

"Yes." Solona finally spoke up, interrupting Anora's speech. "Yes. I will support you at the Landsmeet."

"Oh." The Queen looked surprised. "Very well then," she replied, relieved but still picking at her fingers.

With a final nod, Solona rose and departed for her chambers. She barely made it to the door before the voice of guilt took root in her heart. Had she chosen Anora in the interest of the nation? Or had she done it to keep Alistair for herself?

 

* * *

 

Hidden in the dressing closet of Solona's chamber, Alistair giggled silently to himself. Despite an earlier mishap, this was still an _excellent_ idea - perhaps the best he'd had in days. Compounding the upcoming Landsmeet with the Blight and a country on the verge of civil war, matters had been dire for far too long. He had seen the weight of it wearing upon Solona. With dark circles beneath her eyes and a lyrium potion constantly in her hand, Alistair knew she was wearing thin. It seemed like a lifetime since he had the sweet ring of joy in her laughter.

He felt along the Veil for the slightest disturbance that would signal the approach of a mage. Solona should not be long now. He could hardly imagine her spending hours chatting away with Anora as she could with Leliana.

The thought of the bard cast a slight shadow upon Alistair's mood. He liked Leliana - he really, truly did - but he did not like how she _touched_ Solona. At first, she had just fussed with Solona's hair. Then it became the occasional shoulder rub and later the frequent overly-long embrace. Now _, Maker's breath_ , Leliana practically clung to his lover day and night. More than one dark evening he had snuck across camp to Solona's tent, intent upon some very intensive canoodling, only to the find the pair curled up asleep together. Alistair scowled. Sure, _hot_ , right? But that came as small comfort when he was forced to relieve himself, alone and ashamed, in his own tent. Solona shrugged off his complaints, claiming they were just sisterly friends. Sisters did not cuddle like that. Alistair was sure of it.

And then there was Zevran. At least the Crow had the decency to be honest about his intentions, though it did little assuage Alistair's ire. The elf had propositioned Solona, Alistair, Solona and Alistair, and even Solona, Alistair and Wynne, on more than one occasion! Of course Solona laughed it off as impish teasing. Maker, was the girl so naive that she did not realize Zevran would happily leap into bed with any and all three of them?

The Veil trembled, interrupting his thoughts. A mage approached. Having learned from a rather unfortunate incident with Morrigan earlier, Alistair cautiously peered out through a crack between the doors. The chamber door opened, and through it walked his lover. He grinned. Success!

She closed the door gently behind her, leaning back against it, biting at her lower lip. Alistair watched, his breath caught in his throat, as she considered some unknown dilemma. Maker, but she was beautiful. The dark braids that tumbled through her hair. The soft dove-grey of her eyes. The blue tattoos that skirted her right eye. Her sweet pink lips.

He was enraptured by her.   

Alistair's chest grew tight as his heart seemed to swell. How he loved her. Too much. Too madly. He loved her in ways that were beginning to make him question his own sanity. What had started as foolish puppy-love had burned brighter and deeper than he ever thought possible. He had long since passed Adoration and now teetered dangerously close to Infatuation. He feared Obsession loomed just beyond.

As a child at Eamon's estate and into his days in the Chantry, Alistair had been forced into independence. Even as a Warden, with mentors and brothers aplenty, he had been comfortable in solitude. But now, he feared he _needed_ Solona. The thought of ever being apart from her drove him mad.

He loved her. And it burned.

Across the room, Solona seemed to come to a decision.   She stepped away from the door and walked quickly to the desk against the far wall. Alistair strained to see as she opened the top drawer and removed a small bottle. With a unceremonious flourish, she pried off the cork, raised it up to her lips, and consumed the contents in a single pull.

Lyrium. She had been drinking too much of it lately. Alistair had trained as a Templar - he knew well enough the damage it could do. He vowed to speak to her about it when he got the chance. But not now - he smirked as he rolled his shoulders, readying himself - now, he had other plans...

In a single breath, he cast a Cleansing Aura, burst forth from the closet, and threw his beloved over his shoulder.

As he charged towards the bed, Alistair felt her pull at the Veil, only to find it hidden behind his Templar tricks. Solona shrieked and thrashed against him; he grimaced as her kneecap thudded against his ribs. Tossing her onto the mattress, Alistair stood back to enjoy admire his handiwork: her robes were twisted about her legs, her hair already a mess.  

Solona stared back at him in confusion. "Alistair?" she gasped. "What in the Maker's name are you - "

Leaping onto the bed next to her, Alistair cut off her questions with a kiss.   Her shout of surprise was muffled against his lips.

In her shock, Solona lay board-stiff in his arms; her eyes held wide as he began to nibble at the corners of her mouth. After a moment, she gave in, trusting in him. Her hands slid up his chest, drawing him nearer. She opened to him, the taste of lyrium still upon her lips.

When they broke apart, she tried again. "Alistair?"

"Shh," he whispered as he began working at the dreadful clasps of her robes. "I'm not your incredibly dashing and handsome lover. I'm a dastardly rogue, come to have my evil way with an innocent maiden."

Solona stared at him for a moment before laughing. "Is that so?" she asked with a smile.

"Mhmm," was Alistair's only reply as he began to reign light kisses up her jaw and down her neck. He breathed in the scent of her: soap and lyrium and sunshine. His fingers fought blindly at the cursed clasps. He had surely battled the legion of hidden buttons, buckles and ties that secured Solona's robes a thousand times by now. She had even once sat him down and conducted a tutorial for him - a lesson he had enjoyed far more than any from his Chantry days - and yet, as soon as he had her in his arms (her hands stroking at his back, her lips against his neck) it all became so very complicated. Surrendering, he was forced to content himself with running his hands up beneath the hem of her robes and along the soft skin of her thighs.

"Well then, Maker preserve me!" she laughed, her voice ringing high and sweet. "If only there was some strong, brave, handsome knight to rescue me..."

He smiled against her neck as she played along. Maker's breath, he loved her.

"Sten!" she shouted. "Save me!"

Alistair drew back, scowling. "That's not funny."

She met him with an impish grin. "I thought it was pretty funny."

"Yes, well, it wasn't. And now I'm utterly put-off. Ravishing cancelled." Sitting back upon his knees, he managed his very best pout. "You know, you're pushing into my territory here," he complained, crossing his arms before him.

"Your territory?"

"That's the deal, remember? I make the witty one-liners, you burn things."

Solona stifled a laugh. Sitting up, she nodded gravely. With hair mussed and robes pushed up past her thighs, she did her best to feign a look of contrition. "My deepest apologies, my love. Can you ever forgive me?"

Alistair sniffed. "Just don't let it happen again."

They stared at each other a moment before dissolving into laughter. And then she leapt upon him, sending them both tumbling back onto the bedding.   

They rolled together, hands and limbs and mouths colliding until somehow they came to rest with Alistair flat upon his back and Solona sprawled upon his chest. Her lips sought his, her kisses sweet and playful as she nipped at him.

His hands slid up her sides, coming to rest as always at her breasts. He kneaded the soft mounds through the fabric of her robes. Alistair wanted to be a skilled lover for Solona - the sort that could leave her trembling with the slightest artful touch - yet he could not seem to break himself of the desire to _grope_ at her when given the chance. She sighed against his lips, arching her back to thrust her chest towards him. He smirked; then again, from the way Solona ground her hips against his own, he supposed she didn't mind the occasional bumbling squeeze too terribly much.

Too soon the dulled contact through fabric was not enough. Alistair longed to feel the soft glide of her flesh against his own. With a groan, he tried once more to divest his lover of her robes. He managed to undo a few of her belts and sashes - the heavy Circle seal upon her belt clanked as it hit the floor - but despite his very, very best efforts, her robes remained closed.

"Sol..." he ground out in frustration, begging her assistance.

Solona chuckled. Her poor, sweet, helpless lover. She kissed him soundly, the dance of their tongues drawing a moan from his throat, before pulling back to straddle his hips. The gaze that met her own was heavy with desire, his pupils blown wide. She gave her minx's smile as she drew her hands up to her side and, with an agonizing slowness, flicked open one of the buttons waiting there. As her fingers worked, she rolled her hips against him.

Alistair's hands gripped impatient upon her thighs. She was playing with him, sweet agony he wanted to enjoy but found himself too weak to endure. He groaned after what seemed an eternity as she made her way to the second and then third buttons. "Sol, have mercy," he begged.

She laughed at his torment, but sped up her pace. When, a lifetime or so later, she reached the final button, she stepped back off the bed to stand before him. The tip of tongue peaked out to wet her lips as she let the garment slide slowly down to pool forgotten upon the floor.  Her smallclothes quickly followed, tossed thoughtlessly to the ground, until at last, she stood bare before him.

Alistair swallowed as he took in the sight of her. Seeing his lover in some state of undress was hardly a new experience - he had likely kissed or licked every last inch of her from head to toe by now - and yet, seeing her still made his throat go dry.

He reached for her, and when her hand met his own, Alistair tugged hard and send her sprawling across his chest. Then, with more finesse that he would have thought possible, he managed to roll them so that Solona lay flat upon her back, and he, like a dark shadow of desire, loomed over her. His kiss was demanding before his lips travelled south to latched on to his favourite spot: the soft cord of her neck, just a hair above her collarbone. Nipping and suckling at the soft flesh there, he was pleased to note it would leave a love-bite for later. _Good_ , he thought.   Let them all see it. Let Zevran and Leliana and the rest of them see it and know that Solona was _otherwise engaged_.

Alistair groaned as he felt her fingers run into his hair, tugging and twisting its short strands. Although he had begun to fantasize about long, slow, burning love making sessions where his lovely mage would be reduced to a quivering puddle of heaven in his arms, it was obvious to Alistair that this was not going to end that way. He felt Solona tug at the ties of his trousers, and was only too glad to come to her aid. He wrapped his hands around hers, and somehow, together, they managed to free him from the cloth's suffocating grasp. Laces parted, he gasped as he felt her hand slip down the front to stroke at him.

Her touch was feather-light as she brushed her fingertips along his length a few times before withdrawing her hand. She then pulled at his shirt, her hands gliding across each inch of his chest as it was bared. "Off. Now."

Alistair's heart raced as he sat back to divest himself of the last of his clothing. He managed to remember to tug loose the laces at his collar before pulling his wrinkled shirt over his head. His legs were clumsy as he shifted to sit at the bed's edge and kick at his boots.

He heard Solona shift upon the bedclothes as she came to kneel behind him. Pressing herself against his back, she slid her arms about his chest as her lips found his neck. He felt her smile against his skin as she flicked her thumb against one of his flat nipples. Alistair groaned, his task suddenly much more complicated. How was he expected to get anything done with such a distraction?

He playfully swatted her hands away. "Be good," he warned.

Her laugh was soft as she ignored his demands. Alistair shivered, fighting with his other boot now, as her wandering hands drifted south once more.  When her hand grasped his length, stroking and squeezing, the tip of her tongue tracing the shell of his ear, his boots were quickly forgotten. His eyes fell closed. His hands dropped to the grip at the bed clothes. Her touch was hot and cold, soft and firm, and it stole his breath away. He leaned back against his lover, letting his head fall to the side to give her better access. He gasped in short pants.

Gently grasping his earlobe between her teeth, she tugged. "Boots, my love," she breathed, reminding him of his task.

Alistair shook himself back to the present. What had happened to his game, he wondered.   Wasn't he supposed to be the one in charge of the ravishing?

Turning suddenly, Alistair grabbed Solona's wrists, and planted his lover back onto the bed. Holding her hands above her head, he kissed her hard, trying desperately to retake control. "Stay," he ordered, trying very hard to be intimidating despite his opened trousers.

Never one to lose at their games, Solona resorted to cheating. As she settled back against the pillows, she pouted sweetly at him before a smirk cracked through her lips. Holding Alistair's eye, she drew her hands up the flat plane of her stomach, gliding, stroking, wandering. One hand came to cup at her own breast, rolling its weight in her palm, squeezing gently before plucking at the pouting rosebud at its centre. She hummed softly in her pleasure. Her free hand drifted back downwards, sliding down past her navel and brushing over her soft curls. She bit her lip, her eyes falling closed.

Miraculously, Alistair managed to remove his pants in record time.

And then he was upon her.   "Now you've done it," he warned as he pinned her to the bed. Leaning over, it was his turn to tease as his attention shifted down her chest once more. He nuzzled, kissing and nipping about one soft globe and then the other. When at last he took one straining bud between his lips, she sighed in relief.

Her hips began to twitch beneath him, suddenly impatient to have him. She shivered as he scraped his teeth over one nipple. "Alistair," she begged him. He grinned against her flesh; it was always gratifying to know she wanted him just as badly as he wanted her.

With lips still busy in their work, Alistair let one hand stroke down Solona's stomach. Her soft mewling sounds echoed in his ears. His sneaking fingers trailed down over her mound and finally to her core.

She jumped at his first stroke, nearly bucking him off.

Pleased with the result, Alistair redoubled his assault with his tongue, sucking and nipping and driving Solona mad. He tried to time the lashings of his tongue with the long strokes of his finger, the gentle nips of his teeth with the circling of his thumb upon her nub.

She writhed beneath him. Her fingers clutched at the bedding, his back, his shoulders, his hair - anywhere that she might find an anchor against the onslaught of sensations. Her long legs shook, toes curled, as she angled her hips up towards him, insistent and demanding.

Alistair drew back for the slightest moment to watch - her eyes were heavy with desire - before at last sliding a finger to where his lover so ached. Her back arched up to meet him as he returned his attention to her breasts.

He groaned at the way her channel pulsed against him, imagining how it would feel gripping at his manhood. Her wanton moan when he added a second nearly had him spend upon the bedclothes.

Unable to wait any longer, Solona's fingers slid into the hairs at his neck, twisting and tugging. When he ignored her urgings, she pulled him up to meet her lips. "Please," she breathed, pupils wide in desire and leaving no doubt that in this, Alistair was very much in charge.

Alistair swallowed the knot in his throat. She always asked so politely - the manners they must teach in the Circle, he mused.

As if he would deny her this.

As if he would deny her anything.

He nodded, giving in to her impatient demands. With a final tender kiss, Alistair drew himself back over her and thrust into her core.

He groaned against her lips. He would never get used to the sensation as he fell into the tight heat of his lover.

Once, they had come together as fumbling virgins. They had blushed and stuttered and stumbled through their first attempt at making love. Alistair had very quickly embarrassed himself and Solona had gone to sleep confused and unsatisfied. But that was long ago. They had persevered. Now, they knew each other's bodies - where to touch, how to tease, how to pleasure themselves and each other. They could make each other shudder and gasp with ease.

They fell into an easy rhythm, practiced lovers drawing out their pleasure. Alistair felt his beloved grasp and stroke the length of his back. Her little pants brushed against his cheek. When she shifted her hips just slightly, her soft legs sliding up his sides, he groaned as he slid in deeper. Their eyes met for a moment, and she nodded, urging him onwards. Harder. Faster.

Alistair lost himself within her. He pulled Solona tighter to his chest, greedy in his affections, desperate to have all of her at once. He needed to hear her every moan, feel each inch of her of skin against his own. He wanted to taste her desire, breathe in her scent.

She was his everything.

"Please," she begged now. Her moan was muffled by his lips as he devoured her.

Bracing himself upon one forearm, Alistair drew one hand between them to stroke at her nub. She gasped at the added sensation. Her eyes fluttered open and she met his gaze. "I love you," she breathed, so very close to the edge.

Alistair kept his eyes open, watching each and every expression as they danced upon his lover's face: the bite upon her lower lip, the flutter of her eyelashes, the blossoming flush across her cheekbones.

From the way her breath came is sharp gasps, her fingers clutched, grasping, clawing, into his back, Alistair knew she was close. She began to speak nonsense words of love and desperation.

He muffled her cries with a kiss. He tried not to grin - she would be mortified if she ever realized just how noisy she could be. It was tempting to let her shout. Her cries of pleasure, and specifically knowing that _he_ drew them out from her, were music to Alistair's ears. The primal, animal, part of his mind wanted to let her scream down the whole damn manor - let Zevran and everyone else hear that she was his. Yet out of respect of Eamon and Wynne, Alistair did his best to keep his and Solona's nocturnal activities from disturbing the entire household; he kissed her hard and full.

Solona gasped as she tumbled over the edge.   Her neck wrenched to the side as she lost herself in the coursing waves of pleasure, her fingers grasping at his shoulders. She fluttered and clenched about him in a sweet, beautiful agony that begged him to join her. And yet, Alistair forced himself to wait. It was always so much better when he could force himself to wait, to delay his pleasure and let the fire consume him.

When she came down from it, her breath still coming in short gasps, Solona looked at him in wonder. She looked at _him_ \- foolish, bastard Alistair - like he was the Maker's Chosen. But Alistair did not care if the Maker or Andraste had chosen him or not; all that mattered was that _she_ had chosen him. Not Zevran. Not Leliana. Not any of the hundreds of wide-eyed boys that filtered madly with her. _Him_.

The awe in her gaze spurred him onwards; his heart swelled in adoration.   He thrust hard and wild into her, forcing his lover to take the full burden of his desire.

"Alistair," she sighed his name like it was sacred. It was too much. The sight of her. The sounds she made. The hot silk within her that clenched and rippled about him.

The fire pooling at the base of his spine broke free. He clutched her tight enough to bruise, and finally allowed his eyes to clench close as he buried his face into her neck. He managed to choke her name as he spent himself within her.

He collapsed atop her, his forehead tucked into the crook of her neck, his cheek against her collarbone. His breaths slowed and the sheen of sweat upon him began to cool. In a distant, hazy corner of his mind, Alistair knew he must be crushing her, and yet Solona never complained. Instead, she stroked his back, comforting him, loving him. She let her fingers drift up and down, brushing down over his shoulder, and drawing up into his hair.

For all that he would be pleased to stay like this forever, when he was able, Alistair lifted himself up and off of his lover. He paused to kiss her, long and tender and slow. Rolling onto his side, he drew Solona up against his chest. He wrapped himself about her, content to never let her go. He sighed against her hair, murmuring soft lover's praise as he pressed lazy kisses across her crown.

They lived in the midst of a Blight and on the very edge of civil war, and yet somehow, Alistair had never been happier.

Settling deeper into the bedding, Alistair was quite certain there was no way in the Maker's Thedas he was leaving Solona's bed tonight - propriety be damned. He could sneak back into his own room early the next morning. Tomorrow would be another long day, but at least tonight, he could enjoy some comfort in his lover's arms.

Solona's magic swelled as the candles in the room extinguished and the fire died down low. Alistair drifted on the edge of sleep. Peaceful. Contended.

And then, her sudden whisper pierced the darkness, "I agreed to support Anora at the Landsmeet."

"What?" Alistair asked, sitting up. He stared at Solona, uncertain of what to say. This wasn't exactly their usual pillow talk. They had just shared a rather perfect evening, and now it seemed spoiled by even the mention of politics and crowns. He heard her swallow; her voice cracked as she spoke.

"You said you never wanted to be king."  

Even in the low flickering light of the dying fire, Alistair could see how Solona had paled, fearful of his reaction. The way she worried her lower lip tugged at his heart.

"No ... ah, you're right," he managed.

It took him a moment to fight down his initial shock, but Alistair supposed she had made the right choice. He may not like Anora, but really, what other choice was there? Ending the Blight was their foremost concern - who sat upon the throne afterwards mattered little, so long as it wasn't him.

He heard Solona draw a deep breath before asking, "You're not upset?"

"I don't want anything to do with the crown," he promised.

She swallowed down her fears. "You're sure?"

Alistair nodded; he was certain. He didn't want to be king. He didn't want anything to do with nobles and politics. He drew Solona tight against his chest. All he wanted was this.

He kissed her once more. "Go to sleep, love. Tomorrow will be a long day."

Despite his own advice, Alistair remained awake for many hours after he felt Solona drift into sleep. He watched silently as his lover murmured in her sleep, moving only to brush away the hairs that fell across her brow. He could not help but feel that something was very wrong about Anora taking up the throne. She had proven herself to be a competent ruler, and Maker knew he did not want the crown himself; yet something boded ill.

Solona tossed suddenly, and whimpered gently against Alistair's chest. He worried about her dreams; even sleep could be dangerous for mages. He pressed a gentle kiss upon her brow. With Anora on the throne, he would be free to live his life with Solona.

Yes, this must be the right course of action.

"Shh," he whispered, as he curled in closer to her. "I love you. Always." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look: a rewrite. I wanted to really hammer home how happy and naive they both were before the Landsmeet. Also, I had sort of hoped that all these years later I would suddenly have become much more comfortable writing smut ... but not so much. Whelp, here's hoping it's at least better than the original.
> 
> For those of you just joining us, welcome! I update about once a year (seriously). Enjoy!


	2. The Storm

The quartet trudged into Arl Eamon's Denerim estate. The day had gone nothing as they would have expected.

Following a day's rest and recovery from their ordeal at Fort Draken, the Grey Wardens had set out to investigate the rumors of unrest in Denerim's Elven Alienage. It was only meant to be a brief information-gathering excursion; most of their companions had opted to remain at Eamon's estate. Only Zevran and Solona's mabari hound, Daro, had decided to trail along. Zevran, curious to see if his brethren in Denerim faired any better than those of Antiva. Daro, wishing to mark the massive tree in the Alienage.

It was a disaster.

They had barely entered the Alienage when Solona caught a foul air and went running to a gutter to be ill. She had seen her fair share of death, but this was different. The Alienage reeked of something new: _slow_ death. Decay. Hopelessness.

The diseased elves they passed in the streets had a special greeting for each of them. To Zevran, they glared with mistrusting eyes; he was an elf, but he was not _one of them._ In Alistair, they saw another guard come to abuse them. A handful recognized Solona to be a mage. They swarmed around her and fell upon shaking knees, begging her to heal them.

The excursion declined considerably from there.

Their quiet investigation had the Wardens scour the very bowels of the Alienage. Empty rooms whispered tales of stolen lives. And - oh Maker preserve them - the Orphanage. Their dreams would be haunted by the echoes of lost children for many nights to come.

It was late evening by the time they returned. They had gone directly to Eamon and related their awful tale. Solona could not help but feel a tremor of disgust in her stomach when Eamon revealed how pleased he was that Loghain was selling elves into slavery.

The Arl confirmed that the Landsmeet would begin the next morning, and urged them all to get some rest.

"Alistair," Eamon called as the party began to depart, "I would like a word with you."

The Wardens paused, passing each other questioning looks. Alistair took Solona's hand and pressed a light kiss upon its back. "I'll catch up with you later." Solona gave him a small smile, and made her way downstairs to check in upon their companions.

After nodding through Wynne's scoldings of worry, Sten's admonishments for irresponsibility, and handful of Oghren crude jokes, Solona trekked to her quarters to bathe and sleep. She was in no mood to entertain any more of Eamon's or Anora's ambitions tonight.

As she settled herself into bed, Solona felt shame well up from deep within. Back in the Alienage, the Master Slaver, Caladrius, had offered to augment her powers with the slaves' life forces. Solona rarely prayed, but tonight she begged the Maker to forgive her – she had considered accepting Caladrius' offer. At the time, she had told herself that any measure to end the Blight was worth it. The elves in the cages had looked so pitiful – so _lifeless -_ anyways. If it had not been for Alistair's stern refusal, Solona feared she may have accepted.

Downing two vials of lyrium, Solona doused her worries and willed herself to sleep.

* * *

 

Alistair followed Eamon back into his study. The Arl motioned at him to close the door behind him. Alistair raised an eyebrow. It was rare for Eamon to require secrecy from his own household. Even the arguments with the Queen had been done with an open door for all to hear.

Suddenly at ill ease, Alistair flopped onto one of the waiting lounge chairs and began fiddling with a candelabrum on the adjacent table.

"I've been wondering," began Eamon. "How much thought have you given to being king?"

Alistair shrugged. "Oh, you know, just what colour of throne and whether I'll look good in tights. I've always been partial to trousers, but you really never know until you try something new..." He looked up meet the Arl's gaze. Eamon was not amused.

Eamon rubbed his brow. "Please my boy, be serious for once."

Alistair turned back to the candelabra. What was he supposed to say? _Sorry Eamon, but Solona picked Anora and I'm too much a coward to object_? "You know I've never wanted to be king." he said instead.

"But Duty compels you," replied the Arl, "And there are things you must consider before the Landsmeet."

Alistair remained silent. With a distant look, he flipped a candle over to examine its bottom.

After a few drawn moments, Eamon broke the silence, "What of Solona?"

"What about her?"

"Well, for one thing, she's a mage."

"Oh good," Alistair replied. "It's so nice when people notice. It saves the whole awkward 'watch out, she might turn into an Abomination and eat your soul' talk."

Eamon ignored this and continued on "And, she's a Grey Warden."

"Huh - me too!" Alistair chimed in.

The Arl sighed. "The point is, Alistair, for all that you may love her, she can't be your queen."

Alistair sobered. This was not the conversation he had expected. "My queen?" he asked. "You're getting a bit ahead of yourself, aren't you?"

"We're talking about the future of a country. We have to think far ahead," Eamon replied. "You've been together for nearly a year now, yes?"

Alistair nodded carefully.

"And you love her, yes?" the Arl continued.

Eamon took the silence that followed as a confirmation. "Then you must end it, my boy," he spoke gently to his former ward. "She is a mage, a commoner and a Grey Warden. The Landsmeet will never accept her. It will look like we're trying to give the country to the Wardens. Besides, you know mages can't have titles."

"… Wardens can't have titles either. So I guess I can't be king then" Alistair argued.

The Arl disregarded this and continued on, "You will need an heir to stabilize Ferelden. Any child Solona bore would belong to the Chantry."

"Then I won't take the blasted crown," Alistair stated.

"As king, you could do so much good for Ferelden," Eamon coaxed. "Those elves you saw? You could change all of that – give them a real chance. Anora does not care about them. You said that things need to change; Anora will only maintain the status quo. Yes, you will have to make sacrifices, but this is the _right_ thing to do."

Alistair rose to leave. He was tired and wanted nothing more to do with it.

"Please Alistair. Think about it," the Arl called after him.

Alistair made his way through the estate to Solona's chambers. He was not in the mood to fake propriety and pretend to sleep in his own room for once. Eamon asked the impossible. Having lost both his birth family and his adoptive Grey Wardens, Solona was Alistair's last tether to this world. Without her, crown or not, he would have nothing.

Alistair opened the door and crept silently towards the bed. A single candle illuminated his sleeping lover. He tucked himself into bed next to Solona's sleeping form. She must have been exhausted; for once she did not toss restlessly about. With gentle hands, he pulled her into his arms, and placed a soft kiss against her crown.

"Alistair?" Solona mumbled, half awoken.

"Shh," he whispered into her hair. "Go back to sleep."

Let Anora have the bloody kingdom. He would keep his beloved.

* * *

 

The next morning was a flurry of chaos. Arl Eamon had gone ahead to the Landsmeet, urging the Wardens to follow as quickly as possible. There had been some debate as to who should accompany them. An apostate would hardly gain them support, and Morrigan was only too happy to remain. Likewise, Leliana, Sten, and Zevran were foreigners and not welcome at a meeting of government. Bringing a dog, mabari or not, would be seen as disrespectful and bringing a golem would just be … distracting. That left only the Wardens, Wynne and Oghren.

They had been waylaid by the usual confrontations of guards, assassins and thugs, but this was hardly anything new. They were late, but they arrived at the palace in relatively orderly state.

With a final deep breath for courage and calm, Solona Amell entered the Landsmeet. At her side marched her companions. Behind her, Ser Cauthrien knelt and begged whispered forgiveness from Andraste. Before her stood Loghain Mac Tir, Teyrn of Gwaren and Regent of the Crown.

"… and here she is now: the Puppet Master." Loghain shouted as he gestured grandly at Solona. "Tell us, Warden, how will the Orlesians take our country? Will they deign to send their troops? Or will they simply issue their commands through this would-be prince?"

"... _wanker_..." came a cough. Solona spun around to scowl at Oghren. The warrior would only shrug, "Just saying..."

Solona made her way to the front of the Landsmeet. The Teyrn glared at her, but she held her ground.

"What did they offer you?" Loghain snarled. "How much is the price of Ferelden's honour now?"

The air became thicker as the tension of the hall rolled against it. Solona fought to retain her composure. "The Blight is the threat here, not the Orlesians," she spoke clear and true.

A chorus of agreement came tumbling down with the nobles in the balconies above.

Loghain scoffed. "The Wardens claim only they can end the Blight, yet they failed spectacularly at Ostagar," he began. "They would have us invite four legions of Orlesians into our homelands. And once we open our borders to the Chevaliers, can we really expect them to return from whence they came?"

Solona glanced around the hall. Most of the nobles had darkened at the mention of Ostagar; she dared not try to defend the actions of the Wardens. "You sold Ferelden citizens into slavery to fund your war," she shouted instead.

"What is this? There is no slavery in Ferelden!" a cry came from a Bann.

Loghain rallied effortlessly. "There was no saving the Alienage. After the riots, it was in ruins; bodies still lie in the streets." He turned to Solona. "I would not send my worst enemy there. Despite what you may think, Warden, I have done my duty. Whatever my regrets for the elves, I have done what was needed for the good of Ferelden."

The Landsmeet grew silent once more as fury festered within Solona. The nobles did not care about the elves. The Warden attempted another tactic. "Was sending an apostate to poison Eamon your duty as well?" she asked.

Loghain scoffed. "I assure you, if I was going to send someone, I would send my own troops. I would not trust it to an apostate."

From high on a balcony above, Bann Alfstanna stepped forward. "My brother tells another story," she shouted. "He says you snatched a blood mage from his grasp. Coincidence?"

It was now the Revered Mother's turn to speak. "Do not think that the Chantry will overlook this, Teyrn Loghain," she warned. "Interfering with a templar's sacred duty is an offense against the Maker."

A torrent of whispers rose from the Landsmeet. Apparently, selling elves into slavery was frowned upon, but attacking a noble – one of their own – was unforgivable.

Still, Loghain remained unapologetic. "Whatever I have done, I will answer for to the Maker," he said. The Teyrn focussed his attention upon Solona once more. "But tell me Warden, what have you done with my daughter?"he asked.

Solona was taken aback. "What have I done? I rescued her from Howe. I've protected her from you!" she replied.

"You took my daughter, our Queen, by force – killing her guards in the process," accused Loghain, taking an offensive strike. "Does she even still live?" the Teyrn feigned a tragic tone.

"I believe I can speak for myself," came a call from the back of the hall. A collective gasp filled the room as Queen Anora stepped out into view. "Lords and Ladies of the Landsmeet, hear me!" she ordered. "My father has gone mad. He is no longer the Hero of Riverden. He abandoned his king at Ostagar, leaving Cailan to die bravely fighting the Darkspawn. He took Cailan's throne before his body was even cold. He then locked me away so I could not reveal his treachery."

Solona tried not to grimace. Anora's take was _mostly_ truthful. Yet, Ostagar was almost a year ago, and the Queen had only become concerned with the truth in the last fortnight.

"So, the Warden's influence has poisoned even your mind, Anora. I wanted to protect you from this," lamented Loghain. He turned his back to his daughter. "My Lords and Ladies," he called to the Landsmeet. "Ferelden has been conquered, divided and liberated times uncountable. But we have shown that so long as we remain united, we can never truly be conquered." The Teyrn seemed to grow taller before Solona's eyes. "Stand with me," he shouted, "and we shall defeat this Blight!"

There was an awful moment of silence as Doubt began to fester within Solona. What would they do if the Landsmeet stood against them? The Teyrn was obviously mad, but surely some pompous nobles would support him. They would need every vote they could muster... and where the bloody hell was Teagan?

"The South throw their lot in with the Grey Wardens, Maker help us," a noble shouted.

"Waking Sea is with the Warden!" cried Bann Alfstanna.

Solona breathed a sigh of relief as more support followed. They did not receive every vote, but it was enough.

Loghain was furious. "Traitors!" he screamed. "Which of you stood against the Orlesian Emperor when his Chevaliers flattened your fields and raped your wives?" The Teyrn spun about, sparing none his accusing glare. "None of you have spilled blood as I have spilled blood. How dare you judge me?" He drew his sword and advanced towards the crowd of nobles. Behind him, his guards followed suit.

In an instant, Oghren and Alistair were at Solona's side. Alistair's hand landed upon Solona's shoulder, ready to push her behind him; she shrugged him off. There were too many innocents here to risk a fight.

"Call off your men and we will settle this honourably," she urged.

The Teyrn considered for a moment, and then nodded to his guards to sheath their weapons. "Then let us end this," he conceded. "I suppose we both knew it would come to this, but I would have never thought it would be _you_." He shook his head lightly. "We are judged by the quality of our enemies – Maric told me that. I wonder if it says more about you or me..." He took in a deep breath. "Very well. The Landsmeet shall decide the terms."

Solona blinked. Terms? What terms?

Bann Alfstanna took the floor once more. "It shall be fought according to tradition: single armed combat, until one falls. And we of the Landsmeet will abide by its outcome."

A duel? Solona was not prepared for this. She had only meant that if Loghain surrendered, he would be given a fair trial and due process. Not a duel! She scanned the crowd. They were set upon this. There was no backing out of it now.

Alistair stepped forward and drew his sword. Solona stopped him. "No, it should be me," she whispered.

Alistair shook his head. "I'm not going to let you fight him. He's huge! He probably eats little mages for breakfast with toast and jelly. And frankly, my dear, you're awful with a sword," he answered in a hushed tone.

"No," Solona said. "I'll have him hexed asleep in half a second. No blood. No gore. No one gets hurt. It's better like this." She gave him a reassuring smile. "I'll be fine."

With a deep sigh, Alistair nodded in defeated agreement.

Solona drew her sword, the _Spellweaver_ , more for show than intent. She stepped forward. "I will fight this duel myself," she announced.

Loghain nodded. "It is you or me the men will follow. Prepare yourself," he commanded.

The pair circled each other with cautious steps. Around them, the members of the Landsmeet had formed a tight ring to gain the best view. With swords drawn and a mutual nod, the duel began.

Solona cast the hex of sleep upon Loghain; his eyes barely fluttered. She frowned and quickly cast it again. This time, he did not so much as blink. Solona's confidence waned – the Teyrn had Willpower like she had never before seen. No one had ever resisted her Entropy spells so effortlessly before. Even Morrigan would have been napping soundly on the floor by now.

The Teyrn took a step forward, narrowing their circle. Solona floundered for a different spell. If she wished to bend Loghain to her will, she could use that _other_ sort of magic. No. She crushed the idea. Grey Warden or not, using Blood Magic here would lose them all support. She reached into her knowledge of the Primal Schools instead. She wanted nothing more than to conjure a Tempest where they stood and be done with this, but there too many bystanders. Why were the fool nobles standing so close? They were dueling not dancing!

With a shout, Loghain raised his sword and charged at her. Solona readied a simple charm of frost to freeze the Teyrn in place, and … the Veil vanished. Solona panicked – Templar magics! She jumped back and clumsily lifted her sword, blocking most of the blow.

Loghain sneered at her and whispered. "Thirty years upon the battle fields...Did you really think I didn't pick up a trick or two?" He gave her a forceful shove, and Solona went flying onto her back. _Spellweaver_ went skittering off towards the crowd. The Teyrn lifted his sword to make a killing blow, but Solona managed to roll away – a heartbeat too slow. His blade sliced down the side of her arm before contacting the cold stone below.

Solona gave a hiss of pain as she sprang back to her feet. She clutched at her wound as her sleeve soaked through with blood.

From the crowd, Alistair shot forward to come to her aid, only to be held back by Oghren. "She's got to do it herself, boy. You can't stop a duel."

"He's cheating!" barked Alistair. "He's using Templar techniques to block her magic."

"What? Usin' magic ain't cheatin' too?" the dwarf asked. "Here, have a swill of Ol' Oghren's brew," he added, handing a flask to Alistair. "It takes the sting outta it."

Alistair shoved it back to his companion in disgust. Nonetheless, he remained with the onlookers, praying that Solona would be unharmed. Or at very least, that she would know when to surrender.

Solona was frantic. A thousand spells ran through her mind; yet, none would work if she could not find access to the Fade. Her mind reached blindly for any hint of the Veil. There was none; she was alone.

Her opponent seemed to be taking his time, savouring the impending victory. He continued to circle her, but Solona had no illusions that this would last; the circle was getting smaller with each pass.

The memories of her lessons with Alistair broke free into Solona's mind. Her lover had shown her how to throw off a Templar's hold. Taking a sharp breath, she began to unwind the ties that Loghain had placed before the Veil. A small hole appeared; it was enough to reach through to the Fade for small spells. She would have to build up her magic slowly in pieces. There was only one option for such a spell: a Crushing Prison. Grimacing as she stretched her mind to grasp upon the distant threads of the Veil, Solona cast the first bar.

Sensing a change, Loghain shot forward to strike once more. Solona ducked and dove across the ring towards her sword. She grasp the pommel and rose to her feet in a single move. A gasp and applause came from the crowd. She paid them no attention as she cast her second bar. The Teyrn charged towards Solona once more. She parried weakly, her arms threatening to give out.

Loghain's foot shot out, delivering a crushing blow to Solona's stomach. Once more she went flying backwards. She curled up weakly upon the unforgiving stone.

Loghain advanced, almost swaggering, towards the mage as she clutched at her stomach. She writhed pitifully, and coughed up a slew of blood and bile.

"Give in," he coaxed, as he approached. "Without your magic, you are nothing."

Solona moaned from her position upon the floor. He was right, without magic she was weak. No. No. Stop it. She shook her head; she would not surrender.

The Teyrn advanced. "Then I will make it a clean death," he announced, taking another step. Loghain readied himself to strike – and froze. With a look of puzzlement, he dropped his sword and pushed at an invisible barrier. Solona had cast her third, and final, bar. Loghain was trapped within the triangular prison.

Solona winced and tried to sit upright. Before her, the Teyrn beat against the invisible walls to no avail. She could feel him once more try to hide the Veil; she had to act quickly. With a simple flick of the wrist, the walls of the barrier began to close in upon themselves. The prison shrunk and shrunk, until Loghain was being crushed within it.

A sickening _crack_ reverberated throughout the hall as the Teyrn's arm broke. His hold upon the Veil vanished completely, giving Solona free reign of her magics once more. With a relieved groan, she began casting a healing spell upon her stomach, stopping her internal bleeding. Unfortunately, Creation had never been her strongest school; her arm would have to wait.

From his prison, the Teryn finally gave in. "Enough!" he cried.

Solona relaxed the spell. Loghain was still imprisoned, but no longer crushed by the force. She stumbled to her feet to approach him.

Loghain let his head fall in defeat. "I underestimated you," he breathed. "I thought you were like Cailan – a child playing at a war. I was wrong. There is a strength in you that I have not seen since Maric died." He fell down upon his kneels. "I yield."

Solona struggled to remain calm. Her arm continued to stream dark trails of blood down and along her finger tips. She clenched her hand into a fist. Why had Loghain surrendered? Weren't knights supposed to die in battle? What was she supposed to do with him now? Cackle madly and scorch him to embers, or pat his head and send him merrily on his way? Surrender was not a noble choice.

From all angles of the hall, Solona could feel the eyes of the Landsmeet baring down upon her. She winced as Wynne rushed forward and began to fuss over the gash in her arm. Lyrium called to her, but she could not indulge in front of the nobles. "I accept," she relented, finally.

Alistair tore his eyes away from the Teyrn, "I did _not_ just hear that. You're going to let him live after everything he's done? Kill him already!" he shouted.

"Wait!" a call echoed from the behind a crowd of noblemen. Riordan stepped forward.

"There may be another option. The Teyrn is a warrior and general of renown. Let him be of use. Let us put him through the Joining." The Orlesian Warden turned to Alistair and Solona, and continued, "There are only three of us in all of Ferelden. And there are … compelling reasons to have as many Grey Wardens on hand as possible when we face the archdemon."

Anora spoke up, "I understand the Joining is often fatal. If my father survives, you will gain a general. If he does not, you have your revenge."

Alistair shot forward. "Absolutely not!" he shouted, slicing his arms across his chest in emphasis.

The flurry startled Solona, and she took a cautious step backwards. This was not the Alistair she knew. The jokes and awkward indecision had fled, leaving a man with rage and want. He was a mirror to Loghain.

Alistair pointed himself towards the elder Warden. "Riordan, this man abandoned our brothers and blamed us for the deed. He hunted us down like animals. He tortured you!" he shouted. With shaking fingers, Alistair ran his fingers through his sandy hair. He shook his head and turned to Solona for support. "How can you simply forget that?" he breathed.

Inside her mind, Solona screamed to the heavens above. 'Compelling reasons'? Riordan knew something import – something dire and would not say it. More mystery and lies! How many times would she be Harrowed? Solona gave another mental scream, and fought the urge to run to Riordan and shake the very truth from his lips. Why had Duncan not told them more?

_We must live a selfless life. It is our duty and our privilege_. Duncan's words rushed through Solona's mind. They could not allow their selfish need for vengeance destroy the Greater Good. Surely Alistair would understand this. Solona pulled a deep breath deep into her lungs. All she need do was remain firm upon her ground, and Alistair would surely follow.

"Riordan is right," she spoke. "We should put him through the Joining."

And that should have been that.

Alistair's face sang red. He was not relenting. "Joining the Wardens is an honour, not a punishment," he argued. "Make him a Warden and you cheapen us all. I will not stand next to him as a brother. I won't!"

This time, Alistair's words had been directly solely to Solona. He was being selfish and childish and foolish, and yet it was _she_ that was being overcome with guilt. Solona glanced downwards, suddenly unable to hold her lover's gaze. "We need all the help we can get," she mumbled.

The hall was hung in silence save for the soft falling of Alistair's pacing footsteps. Solona waited with heart racing. A moment passed. A lifetime passed. Finally Alistair pierced the quiet, "I never wanted to be king," he addressed the Landsmeet. "I still don't. But, if that is what it takes to see Loghain face Justice, I'll do it. I'll take to the crown."

Solona's world shattered.

"Listen to this!" shouted Anora. "Can you see how disastrous a king he'd be, putting his own selfish desires above the needs of his country?" She stormed towards Solona and glared into her eyes, "You can't seriously support him?"

But she did support him. Solona knew Alistair had the potential to be an unparalleled ruler. Perhaps it was Maric's blood within him, but for all that Alistair followed her, he truly was a born leader. Yes, right now, at this single moment, he was being a selfish fool; yet, how many times had Solona seen him willing to sacrifice all that he was?

Solona had seen the shade of ego and mercilessness in Anora. The queen had simply stood by and allowed her father to take to the throne. And the elves. The poor elves, rotting in their own skins. Anora had to have known. It had been nearly a year since Ostagar, and only now was the queen attempting to make amends. It was too little, and much, much too late.

Which left only one thing: Solona's heart. If Alistair took the crown, it could very well be the end of them. For so long now, she had harboured a dream of defeating the Blight and riding off into the Grey Warden sunset, with Alistair at her side. _We must live a selfless life_. The words pulsed through her mind once more. Solona knew what she must do. And yet, perhaps this would not be the end of their romance. If he loved her so very much as he claimed, or at least half so much as she did he, Alistair would fight for her. And she would fight for him.

"I stand by Alistair. He will be the new king," Solona announced.

The hall erupted in a torrent of whispers.

"You can't do this!" exclaimed Anora. "My father may be wrong, but he is still a hero to the people."

Kneeling and, for the first time in his life, humbled, Loghain spoke, "Hush now, Anora. It's over."

The former queen turned and spat at her father "Stop treating me as a child. This is serious"

Loghain closed his eyes, and slowly shook his head. "Daughters remain six years old with pig tails and skinned knees forever." He affixed his gaze upon Solona, "Just make it quick. I can face the Maker knowing that Ferelden is in your hands." His words rang with sincerity.

And suddenly, Loghain was just a man. In Solona's mind he had been everything from a hero of legends, to the very archdemon itself. But never _just a man_. He knelt with eyes closed, and chest rising sharply with each breath; Solona could not help but see the traces of fear he tried so hard to hide. He was just a man - an old man - for whom his daughter now cried silently.

Solona drew her sword with shaking hands. This was the moment of which Zevran had warned: the moment when she would cut down a human with her own hands. In their brief training sessions, the elf had advised that it would not be the same as using magic. There was something entirely different about ending a life with a blade. The feel of piercing flesh. The reverberations of draining away a life. The first time, Zevran had cautioned, would cut her as deeply as it would cut her victim.

Solona's gazed drifted between Loghain's kneeling form, and Anora's silent tears. Her arm gave out and the tip of her sword fell to the ground. Solona turned away. "I can't. I can't do it," she whispered.

Alistair stepped forward. "I'll do it," he spoke firmly as he drew his sword. "I owe Duncan that."

With a flash of silver and a stream of crimson, it was over.

* * *

 

In the dining hall of Arl Eamon's Denerim estate, a clock ticked away with maddening pulses. The mage Warden and her companions sat in near silence, awaiting the return of Eamon and their future king.

The Landsmeet had concluded some hours earlier. Alistair was given the throne, and Anora was sent to fester in a tower. The Arl had urged Solona and her companions to return to his estate to rest; he and Alistair were to meet briefly with the nobles and join them presently.

For Solona, the seconds drew by as years. She had not managed to pull Alistair away from a private word following the Landsmeet. Her heart raced with anxiety; Solona needed Alistair to reassure her of their future.

Around her, Solona's companions were no more at ease. In the chair next to her, Leliana plucked at her lute tunelessly. Next to her, Wynne had produced a book and pretended to read. Oghren nursed a skin of some variety of ale. At a safe distance, Zevran tossed a dagger up and down, mindlessly. Meanwhile, Sten, Shale and Morrigan tried their very best to feign indifference; they failed.

The tedium was broke with a piercing crack as the hall's doors burst open and Alistair marched through. Solona's breath caught within her chest; he was suddenly very much a king. When she did manage to breathe once more, Solona scrambled to her lover. She wanted to fly into his arms and hear him say that everything was fine.

Alistair's arms shot out and he stopped her short of his embrace. "We need to talk," he said plainly.

Solona nodded, painfully aware of the eight sets of ears straining to hear their conversation.

"I don't question what you did or why you did it," he began. "You knew I didn't want to be king … but being king raises some questions about you and me."

The words stung Solona. What did he mean, what _she_ had done? It was his choice to take the crown. It was his choice to kill Loghain. She had given him everything that he asked. The room seemed to shrink around them as Solona's heart quickened. "What sorts of questions?" she asked, not truly wanting to know the answer.

Alistair's tone softened as his kingly aura faded. "First, there is the fact that you and I are both Grey Wardens. It's not just a question of obligation, but of blood," he explained. "You know that Grey Wardens don't usually live to become old…" Alistair's voice trailed off. He swallowed hard. It was clear he did not want to say the words; his eyes begged for understanding.

Solona could feel what was coming. Sorrow and anguish began to boil within her stomach. _No_. She would not believe it until he said it. _She loved him._ She _must_ fight for him. Solona lifted a soft hand to his cheek. "We don't have to grow old together, do we?" she whispered hopefully, a sad smile upon her lips.

Alistair pulled away from her touch. His eyes fell downwards, unable to meet her gaze. "Maybe not," he choked. "But that's not in the cards anyways… even more so, since my death is assured. That's assuming someone with the taint can, or even should, have a child."

Cold tears began to form in the corner of Solona's eyes. "I … I don't…" she tried to speak, but could not find the words. She was falling.

"Both of us have tainted blood. Both of us will die young. I will need to marry a wife that can bear a child and live to raise it." Alistair tried. His voice shook as though he, himself, could not believe his words. He took a sharp breath, and forced his eyes to meet hers. "I love you. More than I ever thought possible...but I have to face what this means. I can't run away from it anymore. I can see it being very hard to tear myself away from you. If this must be … then, I have to do it now. I'm sorry"

The tears now followed freely down Solona's cheeks. She wanted to fall to her knees and beg him to stay; didn't he realize that without him, she had nothing left? She had no home, no family, and without him, she would have no heart.

"Why do this now? Why not wait to see what happens" she asked, desperate for any chance. "We could die before this Blight is over."

Alistair shook his head. The sorrow written upon him only broke Solona's heart twice over. "If I don't end it now, I fear I will never be able to," he answered, voice hoarse and wavering. "I'm sorry, but I have no choice."

Solona gave a soft sob. "So this is it. It's over…"

"I think it is best. For both of us." Alistair replied.

"Don't do this, Alistair," she whispered.

"It has to be," he said, as he turned away. "I need to go to camp… be by myself for a while."

With that, the only man Solona had ever loved – the only man she _would_ ever love – walked away. She dropped her knees with a strangled cry.

A low growl came from behind "Sodding nug humper…"

Solona flushed crimson. Her broken heart now had a companion: Humiliation. Her entire conversation with Alistair had taken place under the watchful eyes of their friends. In her self-pity, Solona had forgotten all about them. She turned her head to regard them. Some looked at her with sympathy. Some tried very hard not to look at her.

Solona looked up when she felt a hand upon her shoulder. "My dear..." Wynne began with a sad expression, "perhaps this _is_ for the best…"

Leliana appeared silently at her side, and wrapped Solona in a crushing embrace. "You do not need a foolish man," she cooed. "You are strong and beautiful and -".

Solona broke away from the pair away and stumbled blindly towards the doors. She could not face them.

* * *

 

It was late evening when Solona finally reached their camp on the outskirts of Denerim. She had wandered the city's byways aimlessly as the sun had set, and somehow, she had ended up here. A full, silver moon now shone down upon her. In her pocket, a half dozen empty bottles quietly rattled in apprehension.

The camp was eerily empty, save for Alistair. He sat upon a fallen log next to a sickly fire; he was slumped forward, with head clutched in hands.

Solona approached him with shaking legs. "Alistair?" she questioned in a soft voice.

Alistair shot to his feet, drawing his blade in an instant. The tip sliced dangerously close to Solona's nose; the gush of air left her braids trembling.

Alistair's eyes widened in shock as he recognized his target. "Maker's breath," he choked, and dropped his sword. It landed with a rustling thud upon the grass behind him. Solona furled her brow; he was never so careless with his weapons. But that was just the start of it. His hair was tussled and his eyes were cracked red. She wrinkled her nose; his breath smelled of ale.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, finally.

Solona swallowed hard. Her heart quaked in broken pieces within, and yet, she was still not ready to give in. "I want to talk to you…" she began. "About us…"

Alistair rubbed a tired hand against his forehead. "I was pretty sure we already said everything that needed saying," he answered. His gaze remained downcast. He would not meet her eyes.

Duncan be damned. Didn't she deserve to be selfish, just once? Solona stepped forward until they almost touched. "I love you. I … I can't…Can you really end it?" she breathed. "Just like that?"

Anger suddenly overcame Alistair's expression. "You think this is easy for me? It isn't!" he barked. He let out a sigh, and forced himself to calm. "I love you. I'll _always_ love you, but there are things that are more important than what I want. I wish it were otherwise." He stepped away from Solona, and slumped once more upon the log.

_No_. He loved her. _No_. She would not take this.

Solona kneeled before Alistair. Taking his hands in hers, she said "It doesn't have to be like that." She willed herself to be hopeful. "We have thirty years still. That is more time than either of us had with our parents. Cailan took the crown before he was thirty." She had no idea if this working. "You said you had never seen a female Warden. Maybe because we both are Tainted …" It was a foolish hope, and she knew it. "Please. We could try. We still have lots of time to raise a child."

Alistair shook his head. "I can't place the fate of all Ferelden on a 'maybe'. Please don't ask me to. Thinking about you is just too painful… and too tempting."

Tears had managed once more to escape in long trails down Solona's cheek. She was desperate now. "I don't need to be queen," she begged. "I don't need to be your wife. You could marry someone and … and have your heir. I just need to be with you."

"And what? Marry some poor woman, knock her up and then abandon her?" Alistair was fuming now. She was losing him. "Maker, Solona, you're asking to be my whore! My wife and child would deserve better than that."

"And what do I deserve?" she whispered.

He threw off her hands. "Bloody Andraste, what do you want me to say, Solona? You're a mage? You have the Taint? You're not of noble blood? You're probably barren? Any one of those is enough! We have a duty. We can't be together," he shouted.

It was a knife in her heart. Solona was defeated; she could neither fight nor beg anymore. She stood. "You're a coward," she choked. "If you were willing to fight - if you were truly willing to _burn_ for it, we could be together – duty or not. But you're a coward." She turned and willed herself to disappear into the dark forest before she fell to pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that concludes the Landsmeet and its aftermath, which you all already know. Next chapter will be the march to Red Cliff and the final battle of Origins, which you also all know. And then in Chapter 4, finally, the real plot of this story can start. Huzzah.


	3. The March

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wardens and their companions head to Red Cliff.

It was the morning after the Landsmeet. The world was surely ending, but somehow the sun had still risen. Somehow, the birds still sang their dawn prayers. Somehow, life went on.

Solona had returned to Arl Eamon's Denerim estate just before dawn to collect her companions. Her night had been spent aimlessly wandering the rural outskirts of the city. It was a foolish thing to do on the eve of a grand march. It was an idiotic thing to do alone, cloaked only in darkness.

Solona was an utter mess when she arrived at the estate. Dark circles hung below her red eyes. Her hair was matted; her clothes filthy. It did not matter anymore. She found her companions – all save _him_ \- waiting patiently in the dining hall, picking over their early morning meals. None would meet her eye.

"We have to get going," she muttered. They rose silently, collected their belongings, and set out.

The first rays of dawn were just breaking over the city's rooftops as they left the estate. A few merchants were already milling about, preparing themselves for their labours. It was strange to see the Market Quarter so quiet. As they reached the city gates, Solona turned back one last time to look upon Denerim. For all that it had its rotten corners, it really was a beautiful city. The buildings were grand, and its people were kind. Children were still free to laugh and play. Denerim was _worth_ saving. Solona shook her head; no matter if the Blight ended well or not, she would likely never return.

The Warden and her companions arrived at their camp outside of Denerim as full light reached the lands. It seemed oddly peaceful - like nothing at all had changed. The various emissaries that had remained at the camp were gathered about the fire, chatting idly about the day. Bodahn puttered about, cleaning up after his breakfast. Sandal chased dragonflies nearby. There was a calm and simplicity to it that Solona missed already. Perhaps if she tried hard enough she could pretend that this was like any other morning. Perhaps she could imagine that she herself had just risen from her tent, ready to start a fresh, bright, new day, while stayed Alistair in her bedroll, relishing a few more minutes of rest.

She circled the camp once, trying to memorize it as it was. The high walls of Denerim framed the horizon. The smoke of a low fire wafted between the tents. Solona scowled as she wandered beyond them; Alistair was indeed still asleep. But instead of snoring merrily in her bedroll, he was slumped upon the log, dead asleep. She could not decide if she would rather run and beg for his forgiveness, or run and throttle him. Either way, she itched to run to him. Her plans were cut short as Leliana grabbed her arm and pulled her away to collapse the waiting tents.

Instead, it was Oghren who wandered over to the knight's sleeping form. "Oi! Wake up!" he shouted. His words were accented with a sharp kick to Alistair's shin.

Alistair groaned and rubbed his burning eyes. He was tired, depressed, and hung-over. The horizon spun as he lifted his head to stare blurredly at Oghren.

The dwarf kicked him again. "You awake yet?" Oghren demanded.

"Umm...yes. Doubly so, even," Alistair answered, letting his aching head drop back into his hands.

A shadow appeared as the Qunari came to stand over him. "Only a fool sleeps unguarded in the forest," Sten intoned. "You are unworthy."

Alistair sighed as he craned his neck up to meet the warrior's eyes. "Gee, thanks," he replied. "And what exactly am I so unworthy of?"

Sten glanced from Alistair, to Solona, and then back again. "Everything," was his only reply.

The future king let his own gaze flicker to where Solona was dutifully packing. She looked awful and beautiful all at once. He turned away; it was still too hard to see her. Instead, he stumbled to his feet as the world lurched mercilessly beneath him. Somehow, he managed to stagger over to where Wynne and Zevran were rolling up the coarse camp blankets.

"Wynne," he gasped. "I'm dying. Really - my head is about to explode. Do you have a potion? Or a guillotine? Anything..."

The Senior Enchanter gave him a sharp _tut_ _tut_. "You should know that a hangover is the Maker's punishment for overindulgence."

"Oh?" asked Zevran. "I thought it was losing your rejected lover to an incredibly handsome and sensually talented elf."

Both Wynne and Alistair shot him a cold glare.

"No? Too soon? Very well then ..." Zevran sighed, and returned to his work.

Wynne gave Alistair a sharp scan from head to toe. Finally, she deepened her scowl and dug into her satchel, tossing him a small red vial. "You don't deserve this," she admonished.

"Yes, yes, I'm unworthy. I know," Alistair nodded as he downed the potion. Within a few seconds, his head began to clear. "Thank you," he added.

Wynne only nodded. As he walked away, she made a mental note to hide the alcohol and the lyrium for the remainder of the journey.

* * *

 

The morning had come and gone, leaving the hot weight of the afternoon's sun to stare down upon the Warden's party. It had been decided that they would take the northern road to Red Cliff. Although it led them away from Denerim's armies, this route allowed them to stop at Soldier's Peak to resupply and later join the remaining Circle mages on their journey.

Unlike their travels in the past, this march was silent. There was no sharing of tales nor jokes. Wynne did not give walking lectures on the local floral and fauna. Leliana did not strum casual ditties on her lute. Most noticeable was the separation of the Wardens. Where once they walked side-by-side, or even hand-in-hand, whispering endlessly back and forth, today they stood far apart. Solona marched at the head of the group; Alistair drudged far behind.

The sun now hung high above them, heralding the midday. At Wynne's demand – and Sten's disdain - they had stopped to rest.

Solona collapsed next to Shale, grateful for the shade the massive golem produced. She was tired, dirty, and more than a little broken.

"Is it a bad day to be a mage?" Shale inquired.

Solona sniffed at the question. "Every day is a bad day to be a mage," she mumbled. She turned to look up at the golem. "Why do you ask?"

"It seems that It is most unhappy," Shale observed.

Solona furled her brow. 'Unhappy' was a gross understatement. "Yesterday was a long day," she summarized. "I'm tired."

"The Swamp Witch does little but moan and rub at It's squishy head," the golem observed. Solona nodded; it was true. Morrigan was acting strangely – if not uncharacteristically quiet.

"And the Elder Mage – the Fussy Mage," Shale continued, "is... elderly and fussy."

Solona shrugged, "She's probably just tired too; the marching is hard on her. Not all of us can be immortal."

"'Tis the birds," Morrigan spat darkly from her seat behind them. Solona and Shale turned to regard her. "Wynne is fussing because she must find an offering for the birds of the Circle Tower, else they will not let us enter."

"What?" Shale shouted.

"Oh yes, there are thousands – millions of them there" Morrigan seethed. "We must offer them something... stony, lest they bar our way."

"I most firmly object to this!" replied Shale and marched off to threaten Wynne with a firm crushing.

"That was unkind," Solona tried to scowl; she could not. "And maybe a little funny," she admitted.

Morrigan sighed and rubbed at her temples once more.

"Are you alright?" Solona asked finally.

"'Tis my head," moaned Morrigan. "It feels as though I have sat through a lifetime of Alistair's drivellings." After a moment's reconsideration she added, "And my stomach. The fat estate cook must have poisoned me..."

"Do you need anything?" queried Solona as she tried to ignore the mention of _him._

"Lyrium would help," Morrigan replied, clenching her eyes closed once more.

Solona frowned. Her supply was low as it was; they would not have anymore lyrium until they reached the Circle Tower. For a moment she considered lying – claiming to have none. Surely she needed more than Morrigan. She promptly scolded herself for being so selfish. Solona reached into her pockets and produced a small bottle for her companion.

Morrigan drank the lyrium and returned to massaging her temples.

"Better?" Solona asked.

"No."

"My, my," began Zevran as he sat down next to Solona. "Headache? Nausea?" he turned and gave Solona a sorrowful shake of the head. "It seems our magical temptress has been unfaithful to me. Who is the father? … Sten? I can't say I blame you. He is so very... _large_." The elf lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. "Or perhaps it was one of your animal friends," he mused. "A bear perhaps? So very kinky, my witchy siren."

Morrigan hissed at him.

Solona actually laughed. It was a relief to be happy again, even for a just a moment.

Sten approached, his scowl deeper than usual.

"So very _very_ large..." Zevran sighed beneath his breath. Solona gave a small snort of laughter.

"We're wasting time," Sten complained.

Solona nodded. It was time to get going.

As they rose once more to their feet, Zevran grasped Solona in an unexpected embrace. "You must laugh, my dear," he whispered into her ear. "When you would cry, you must laugh. For me." He placed a light kiss upon her cheek, before turning and continuing down the highway.

* * *

 

The following days were more of the same. The Wardens tried very hard to avoid one another, while their companions tried to pretend that they were not marching to their deaths.

When they did arrive at Red Cliff, they found the village deserted. After fighting their way through a small horde of besieging Darkspawn, they made their way into the castle to confer with Eamon.

"I have grave news," began the Arl.

They had gathered in the same hall where they had first met Connor, possessed and tortured by a demon. Solona scanned the stone arches about them. She had only the very worst of memories of this place. They had found demons and undead here. She had been cast into the Fade here, landing in a labyrinth of nightmares and chaos. She gazed back to a particular door, unnoteworthy from the rest; she had last seen Jowan here, repentant and ash grey, being led off by Templars to his fate.

"Riordan tells us that the Darkspawn horde is headed towards Denerim. They will be there in two days," Eamon explained.

Solona wanted to groan aloud. They had just come from Denerim! The Maker had an awful sense of humour.

"What? Are you sure?" questioned Alistair. "If that's true, then..."

"I ventured close enough to listen in, as it were. I am quite sure," Riordan confirmed.

Solona sighed. "Then we need to march at once," she admitted.

There was an awkward silence, as Eamon and Riordan decided who would bare the remaining bad news. Riordan finally spoke up, "There is even more grave news: the archdemon has appeared. It has taken its place at the head of the Darkspawn horde."

Eamon nodded. "We must begin a forced march to the capital immediately with what we have," he ordered. "Denerim must be defended at all costs."

Riordan appeared hesitant. "The horde must be defeated, but the archdemon is our target, and only a Grey Warden may defeat it." He turned to Solona, "We can only hope that the armies give us the chance we need."

Eamon made to depart. "I will give the ordered at once. I will notify you as soon as the armies are ready. I suggest you all get some rest," he said, before making his way down to the battlements.

Riordan placed a hand upon Solona's shoulder. He looked almost embarrassed – ashamed even. "If you and Alistair would have a word with me, we have Grey Warden business to discuss,"

Solona breathed her agreement with a faint sigh. It seemed more bad news was inevitable.

* * *

 

Solona walked quietly down a hall of Arl Eamon's castle. More secrets - another Harrowing awaited. She approached Riordan's chambers to find Alistair waiting outside. She could not even look at him.

"I..." he began. "Let's just see what Riordan has to say," he gasped finally.

Solona could only nod, and followed him into the room.

"Ah good. You're both here," Riordan said as he rose from his desk. He clenched his jaw for a moment, uncertain of how to continue. "You are both new to the Grey Wardens," he began. "You may not know how an archdemon is slain."

Solona's stomach rolled into an awful mass; this did not bode well.

Alistair looked puzzled. "So, there's more to it than just chopping off its head, say?"

Riordan shook his head. "So you do not know. I had just assumed that Duncan..." he paused to rub his forehead, searching for the right words to explain. "Tell me, have you ever wondered why the Grey Wardens are needed to defeat the Darkspawn?" he asked.

Anger was beginning to well up within Solona once more. She was ill with secrets. Why would Riordan not get to the blasted point? "I assume it has something to do with the taint in us," she muttered.

"That is exactly what it involves." Riordan answered. "The archdemon can be slain, just as any other Darkspawn. But, if it is slain by anyone but a Grey Warden, its essence travels along the Taint, and into the nearest Darkspawn – making it functionally immortal. But, if it is slain by Grey Warden, its essence travels into the Grey Warden instead."

This was it, the next awful secret for Solona to face. "And... what happens to the Grey Warden?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"A Darkspawn is an empty, soulless vessel – a Grey Warden is not. The essence and the Grey Warden are destroyed," Riordan explained.

Thick, suffocating silence filled the room.

"Meaning the Grey Warden that slays the archdemon dies?" Alistair breathed.

Riordan would only nod.

And the fury was lit within Solona. They both had had a chance to stop Loghain's death. Why hadn't Riordan pulled them aside and insisted they spare the Teyrn? He _knew_ Solona had been a Warden for barely a day before Duncan died. And Alistair! Why had he not listened to reason? Why had he demanded that Loghain be executed before hearing the facts? … Why did he have to take the crown?

Solona shook herself. Now was not the time for such thoughts. "Why is this such a secret? Why doesn't everyone know this?" Solona demanded.

"We keep it a secret for the same reason we keep the Joining a secret. Who would join knowing they risk such an end?" the Orlesian Warden explained. He sighed, "And yet, there _must_ be Grey Wardens. Without us, there is no hope."

It was an awful excuse, but Solona held her tongue. Knights, mercenaries, templars and more volunteered for such battles every day. Some would happily die for the sake of honour. Sacrificing a single Grey Warden every half-millennia was hardly a sacrifice at all.

Silence reigned once more. Solona's mind reeled, searching for an answer. There were only three of them. Alistair would be king. Riordan would be needed to lead the new Wardens of Ferelden. That left only her. Her eyes fell closed as the truth became evident. It was best this way. If she survived the Blight, only stone towers awaited her – whether it was Weisshaupt, Soldier's Peak or the Circle, it mattered little.

"Then I will take the final blow myself," Solona said as she cast her gaze downwards.

"No! Absolutely not!" Alistair shouted. He took a sharp step forward, positioning himself between Riordan and Solona. "I forbid it."

Solona shouldered past him. "You are neither my King, nor my Commander," she spat at him. "You have no say in it."

"Burning Andraste I don't!" Alistair exclaimed. He turned to Riordan. "I'm the senior Ferelden Warden. It's my duty to be the one."

Solona scoffed. "You already know where you can shove your duty," she snapped.

Riordan gave the pair a sad smile as they bickered on; it was both tragic and beautiful to see young lovers fighting over who would save whom. "It warms my heart to see such courage," he interrupted them. "But do not rush towards your death. The deed should fall to me. I am eldest, and my body will not stand the Taint much longer. But, should I fail, it will fall to you." He took a deep breath before continuing, "But enough of this. We should get some rest."

Alistair nodded in temporary accord. "Yes. So this ends soon... one way or another."

"That it does my friend. That it does."

* * *

 

As they left Riordan's chambers, Alistair turned to Solona.

"Look, Sol..." he began.

She pushed past him before he could continue. "Go be king, Alistair," she snapped. With that, she trod into her chambers, and slammed the door behind her. In an afterthought, she bolted it; if Alistair followed her, she would fall to pieces all over again.

The heat of the room surrounded Solona in a suffocating burst. She looked up, and promptly flew back against the locked doors; a dark figure was outlined in the rolling flames of the hearth.

"Do not be alarmed," sighed Morrigan, stepping out of the flame's glow. "'Tis only I...".

A relieved gasp rushed forth from Solona's lips. She peeled herself from the heavy doors and made her way to across the room to collapse onto her bed. With a blind hand, Solona reached over to a side table to retrieve a tiny blue bottle. She drank its contents and tossed the bottle carelessly aside. After a moment, she sat up and shot Morrigan a quizzical eyebrow. "Don't you have your own bedroom?" she asked.

The witch wandered across the chamber to where a meager bookcase awaited; her normally graceful gate was stiff and uneven. She thumbed over the dusty spines before turning to regard Solona. "I decided it was time that we spoke," she announced. Morrigan turned to lean up against the shelves. The orange glow of the firelight danced across her pale skin. "I have a plan," she breathed. "A way out. A loop for your hole."

Solona sighed. _Wonderful_ , she thought, _more schemes_...

Morrigan approached the bed. "I know that a Grey Warden must be sacrificed for the archdemon to die. And this sacrifice could be you," she said, punctuating her words by placing a gentle hand upon Solona's shoulder. She gave the Warden an appraising look, "This does not need to be..."

The bed creaked as Solona shot to her feet. "How do you know this?" she demanded. "And why the bloody hell did you never think to mention this before, oh say, we killed Loghain?"

With a firm hand, Morrigan grasped Solona's wrist and pulled her down to sit upon the bed once more. Leaning in, she ran the tip of her finger along Solona's jaw. "I know a great many things. _How_ I know is not so important as _what_ I know." She moved closer to whisper into Solona's ear. "I offer a way out for all Grey Wardens. A ritual. Performed in the dark of night. On the eve of battle."

Solona leaned back from the uncomfortable closeness. Morrigan was being … strange. "Nothing comes without a price," she answered.

A serpentine smile travelled along Morrigan's lips. "Perhaps that price need not be so unbearable, especially if there is much to gain. All that I ask is that you listen to what I have to say. Nothing more," she promised.

What else was there to lose? Solona carefully rose from the bed, and began to pace back and forth before the scorching hearth. She had already lost her only love, and she would not likely live to see the next moon. She sighed. "Very well," she conceded. "What is your plan?"

Morrigan sat upon the edge of the now deserted bed. She spread her arms open and cocked her neck slightly to the side. Solona watched her carefully; it seemed as though Morrigan had become uncomfortable within her own skin.

"What I propose is this," began Morrigan, "Convince Alistair to lay with me here tonight. From this ritual a child will be conceived. When the archdemon is slain, its essence will seek the child like a beacon. At this early stage the child can absorb that essence and not perish. The archdemon is still destroyed, with no Grey Wardens dying in the process."

Solona's jaw fell as bile threatened to rise up into her throat. She wanted to laugh – surely Morrigan must be jesting. It was hardly a secret that Alistair would sooner lay with Oghren than with Morrigan. Solona stared hard into Morrigan's eyes. There was no mirth to be found. The witch was serious.

Still not truly believing the request, Solona asked, "So the child becomes a Darkspawn?"

Morrigan rose and made her way to where Solona stood. She ran a soft hand over Solona's hair like a mother comforting her child. "Not at all," she cooed. "It will become something different: a child born with the soul of an Old God." Her tone suddenly became sharp. "After this is done, you allow me to walk away, and you do not follow. _Ever_. The child will be mine to raise as I wish."

Solona choked at the news, "You actually think Alistair would agree to this?"

Morrigan raised an eyebrow. "If you care for him as you seem to? Consider the alternatives. Alistair will not fail to do his duty as king. He _will_ die. Or, you will die and he will lose the woman he loves. I think you have many good reasons to tell him to save his own life. I think you should consider this carefully."

Taking a couple precautionary steps back, Solona shivered as her back made contact against a stone wall. If she asked him, she was unsure whether Alistair would agree to the ritual. He had rejected her, but when faced with the certainty of one of their deaths perhaps he would relent. Yet, that was only a very small portion of the problem. Solona considered Morrigan a friend, but could she trust her with a child? Perhaps. Could she trust her with an Old God? The answer was obvious. "No," Solona answered. "I won't agree to this."

Morrigan followed Solona to stand so again they almost touched. Her breath was ragged against Solona's cheek. "Do not let your foolish pride condemn you," the witch warned. "No Grey Warden asked for the sacrifice that is now demanded of them, and I offer all of you a way out. _You_ never wanted this," she stressed. "Will you not reconsider?"

A small piece of Solona's heart burned to accept; Mages feared the Maker like no other. As a mage, she had flaunted her prideful magic in his face all her life. There would be no place for her in his golden city. She silenced it with a painful dismissal. "I will not reconsider," Solona stood firm. "The answer is no."

Morrigan was furious. "Then you are a fool! I will not standby and let you waste this opportunity. Die if you feel it is worthwhile. Or be overshadowed. I care not," she spat and marched towards the door.

Solona strode after her and called "Please, don't do this Morrigan." She placed a firm hand upon the door, barring its opening. "Don't go. I need you here," Solona begged. "I can't do this with out you. Please stay. As my friend, please stay."

A sigh fell from Morrigan's lips. "Would that I could have helped you," she frowned. "But this is your own doing." She pushed Solona's hand aside and pulled open the old oak doors.

"Farewell, my friend," were the last words Morrigan whispered before disappearing into the night.

Solona fell upon the bed and tucked her knees up against her chest. She was losing more pieces of herself. A soft footstep echoed through the room, forcing Solona's attention to a dark corner. Leliana stepped out of the shadows. Solona let her head fall back against the bed; how Leliana could hide herself in plain sight she would never know.

"How long have you been there?" Solona asked.

Leliana strode towards the bed. "Oh, _mon petit chou_ …" she began. Long enough, obviously.

The bard climbed onto the mattress next to Solona, and took her hand.

"I'm going to die," Solona whispered. "I thought thirty years was too short, but now I may not last the week."

"Shh, do not say such things," Leliana soothed. "Riordan will succeed and you will live a long and happy life."

"In a tower," breathed Solona, as tears began to gather in her eyes.

Leliana frowned. Her bow was useless against sorrow. With no other weapons at her disposal, she wrapped her arms about Solona and hummed a quiet tune until they both floated down into sleep's embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Righto, next chapter is the Final Battle, and then FINALLY something new. It really is coming. I promise.
> 
> Thanks to those that take the time to Review.


	4. The Tempest

They saw the fires long before they saw the city. Black plumes seeped over the plains and slithered through the mountain passes across Ferelden, raining ash and heralding ruin. When the armies finally reached Highever, fleeing villagers only confirmed their hopelessness: they were too late. Much, much too late. Denerim was already lost.

Morale was low – almost nonexistent – among the troops. The Blight had already won: the capital was lost. Why should they march to their dooms when Ferelden had fallen? Why not wait for the Orlesians or Anders to arrive? Why not make their escape while there was still a chance?

It was the Wardens that pushed the armies onward; waiting would only lead to the deaths of more innocents. The darker reasons of urgency – human harvests and Broodmothers – the Wardens kept to themselves. The generals of all of the races of Ferelden were bound by ancient contract to follow the Grey Wardens when called. And so they marched to ruin.

Alistair and Riordan made great shows of courage. Together they pushed the armies onward with promises of victory and triumph. Yet, the soldiers could not help but notice the third Warden – a mere ghost of a mage floating among them.

Solona was empty. Denerim was lost. Jowan was lost. Her sister was lost. Her lover was lost. How or why she still marched, she did not know. She had spoken barely a word since Red Cliff; she ate little, but drank much.

"It is weak," Shale commented finally, on their last day of travel.

Solona did not answer. It was too obvious to waste her laboured breaths. Yes, she was weak.

"It is weak," tried Shale again. "It will break before Denerim."

There was nothing to say. She was already broken.

The golem stopped its shuddering tracks, and blocked Solona's way. She turned to look up at Shale with tired eyes questioning.

"I will carry It," Shale announced. "I will carry you," she amended.

Solona's head tipped downwards. Shale's offer was a most startling kindness. "I will be okay," she rasped, words like sand in her throat. "I will manage. Thank you, though. It means a lot to me."

A sturdy smack came to the back of Solona's leg, causing her to teeter unsteadily for a moment. Oghren appeared before her. "Get on the sodding rock," he ordered.

Solona only shook her head and continued onwards. Another thump came to her thigh. "Don't make me break yer legs, girly," the dwarf warned.

Solona gave a faint groan and bent to whisper in Oghren's ear. "For one," she hissed, "a broken leg is hardly an issue for magic. And for two, how does it look when the 'Fearless Grey Warden' has to be carried into battle like a child?" she asked. After delivering a hard glare, she spun away and marched double-time up the highway.

A few paces on, an arm came to rest gently around Solona's waist, as Zevran appeared silently beside her. "An unknowning present from Wynne," he explained, handing her a bottle of lyrium.

Solona nodded gratefully, and made to undo the stopper. With her attention diverted, her foot stumbled into a dip in the road. Both she and the bottle fell. And stopped. Zevran shot forward with his feline reflexes and caught both Solona and her potion. He steadied the mage once more upon her feet, and passed her back the bottle. "Do not worry," he breathed. "I have you. We will make it to Denerim together."

Solona whispered soft thanks to him as Zevran laced an arm around her back once more.

Far behind them, Alistair Theirin, future king of Ferelden, tried very hard not to notice.

* * *

 

It was near midnight when the armies came to a shuttering halt at the final cresting hill before Denerim. It was much worse than they could have imagined. The city was overrun.

The Wardens pushed their way to the front of the crowd. For a moment they were lost in awe of it. Orange flames licked over the ruins of the city. Awful, inhuman sounds were punctuated by the periodic scream. A few of the city's remaining guards were now trying to fight their way out; they would not make it. It was a madmen's vision of hell.

The front line began to falter, taking unsteady steps backwards. The rear guard remained beyond the hill crest, not seeing the firestorm that consumed the city; they pushed forwards. The result was a screech of metal and shouts of panic, as the armies massed into a strangling ball. They would trample themselves within minutes.

Solona turned towards Alistair. His jaw hung loose; his eyes were wide. He looked like a frightened child. She placed a gentle hand upon his cheek, forgiving him for that single moment for all of the pain he had caused her. Now was the time for leadership, and she hadn't the strength to do it.

"Go be king," she breathed.

Alistair blinked and wrenched his gaze away from the blaze. He nodded down to Solona, blindly gluing the pieces of his hope together again. Yes, he would be king.

Solona watched as Alistair spun about for a moment, searching for a stage. Instead, he found the steps of an old windmill; it would do.

With more jaunt than any would have thought possible, Alistair leapt up the steps and looked down upon the frightened armies. Men, Mages, Dwarves and Elves. They had left the security of their homes to fight at the Wardens' call.

"Listen to me," he ordered, a king once more. The soldiers turned silent. Alistair was magnificent. He stood tall and proud despite the long march. His armor gleamed in the smoky night. _This_ was the leader the armies had been waiting for.

"Before us stands the might of the darkspawn horde," Alistair shouted. "But we need not fear it, for with us stands this Grey Warden." He gestured towards to Solona and the gaze of the armies followed him.

Solona tried not to grimace as Alistair directed all attention towards her. She was a wreck – hardly a solid source of inspiration. This was Alistair's responsibility. Hers was just to burn things.

"She is proof that Glory is within reach of us all," Alistair continued. "She has survived against all odds. Without her none of us would be here."

A red flush crept up Solona's neck. How do you look triumphant when you are wretched?

"She will lead us to victory," Alistair promised. "Together we will destroy this Blight! We will show the Grey Wardens that we remember and honour their sacrifice."

A great cheer came up from the soldiers. Even Solona felt some of her weariness evaporate away. Inspiration was a powerful weapon.

Alistair thrust his sword towards the burning skies. "For Ferelden! For the Grey Wardens!"

The armies echoed his fervor with their own roar of valor, and as one, they began to race down the hill and into the city. Riordan sped on at the head of the charge.

Alistair jumped down from the mill's steps, landing next to Solona. "Stay close," he ordered.

She nodded and followed him into the nightmare.

* * *

 

By the time the Wardens reached the city walls, the first line had already broken through the gates. They followed them through into the fray.

Solona spun about. There were darkspawn, soldiers, and blood everywhere. She was not used to such massive battles. Her first instinct at seeing hundreds of darkspawn swarming about was to let loose every mass Primal spell she knew. She could stack layers of tempests and blizzards upon one another, and burn the rest. Solona banished the thought. There were too many soldiers among them.

Solona focused on small localized spells: charms of frost, fire and lighting. They worked well, but too soon she was exhausted. Her hand dove into her pocket, seeking one of her few remaining lyrium potions. She had wanted to save them for the archdemon, but at this rate they would not make it through the city without it. She drank the bottle's contents and sighed at the strength it returned to her.

Just as she ran back to Alistair's side, a knight of Red Cliff was thrown against Solona, sending her tumbling through the blood-flecked dirt. When at last she settled, instinct forced her to the fight the urge to rest for a moment. Her fall had drawn the attention of a mass of darkspawn; sprawled across the ground, she was an easy target.

A dozen or so darkspawn lurched towards Solona, twisted grins surfaced on grizzled teeth. There wasn't time to waste in standing; Solona let forth a shockwave that sent the beasts tumbling backwards. She pulled madly at the Veil as she cast every spell to immobilization she could recall. Arcane prisons shimmered as they closed around the darkspawn. Stone fists rose from the earth to grasp at the creatures' feet. Finally, fire consumed them all.

Solona breathed a sigh of relief as she rolled away from her attackers; none would survive. Gracelessly, she stumbled to her feet and prepared to return to Alistair's side. Solona scanned the square. Alistair was gone. Everyone was gone. Her companions had pushed on without her.

With wild panic, the mage scrambled through dark alleys and in and out of open courts. The fires had entirely changed the landscape. She was lost in the streets she walked only a week ago. She swore at her own incompetence – how did you lose an entire army in mere moments?

Solona rounded another corner, bursting into yet another of the city's squares. And into a swarm of darkspawn. She skittered to a halt, too loud and too late. The beasts spotted her. Their alpha gave a ragged shriek as sixty or so darkspawn charged towards her. Solona frowned: it seemed rather unnecessary.

Tired and disoriented, Solona could not outrun them; she would have to hold off the darkspawn as best she could. She shot small, fast-casting spells as they approached, taking blind steps backwards with each. When her back thumped against a wall, panic overtook Solona once more. She drew her sword, but it would be little use. A hundred darkspawn would be no match for her Primal magic, but she would not have the time to conjure such a large spell. The horde was almost upon her.

A mighty roar pierced the darkspawns' snarls. Solona risked a glance sideways, only to see a mass of darkspawn go flying across her field of view. It was Alistair.

The knight drove his way through the far edge of the horde. Darkspawn were sent tumbling backwards as Alistair thrust his way to Solona. When at last he reached her, Alistair shoved Solona behind him and took over as her guard.

He was magnificent. Solona had never witnessed such strength in a single man.

"Cast something already!" Alistair shouted as his blade and shield flashed through the air, deflecting the blows that would have ended her.

Solona swallowed and remembered herself. With shaking fingers, she conjured a blizzard atop the darkspawn swarm. Within seconds, they were caked in ice and unable to move. Solona took in another gasp of air. With no other humans in the square save herself and Alistair, her next spell would be … somewhat safe.

Solona closed her eyes, trusting Alistair to protect her. With a soft hum she whispered against the Veil, asking the Fade for a dark, dark spell. It was slow to cast, but she had time now. Black, sooty clouds began to form at the feet of the darkspawn. Their armor hissed as it too turned black. The cloud grew higher, seeping into the mail and corroding their flesh. By the time the dark mist swirled over their heads, it was too late; the darkspawn were dead.

Solona pulled Alistair back a few cautionary steps. The mist would hold its position for a few more seconds, and then disperse harmlessly away, leaving only dark puddles in its wake. The Circle mages called it a Cloud of Death. It was an understatement.

"Right," breathed Alistair, turning away from the cloud. "Let's go," he ordered, grabbing Solona's hand.

Solona was drug jogging after Alistair as he led her through a maze of ruins. When at last she was quite certain he was lost, they turned a final corner and entered a clearing where the armies had gathered. The troops milled about, waiting for the Wardens' next command.

Riordan ran over to Solona, "We must make our way to a high point in the city," he said. "I suggest you take Alistair and at most two others and head to Fort Draken. The rest must stay here and hold the gates."

Solona blinked. "You're not coming with us?" she questioned.

"No," he explained. "If we are together, the archdemon will sense our presence. I must go alone." He paused for a moment, as if searching the ether. "I can sense two darkspawn generals within the city. One is in the Market District; the other is in the Alienage. You must stop them before the archdemon calls them to its aid. Be careful," Riordan warned, "there is word that there are still elves trapped in the Alienage." With that, the Warden sped off into the ruins.

Solona turned to her companions. They were silent, waiting for her command. Who did you ask to follow you into the beast's lair? Who did you ask to remain? "Oghren and Zevran," she decided finally, "I need you to come with Alistair and me." She scanned her comrades, "the rest of you need to stay here and defend the gate."

A murmur of disapproval came from the Warden's party.

Alistair scowled. "It would be better if you stayed here, and I went-"

Solona cut him off. "Don't start," she warned.

Leliana stepped forward and placed her hands upon Solona's shoulders. "Surely a bow would be most useful against a dragon, _non_?" she asked.

"I need you to scout above the walls here," Solona answered. What she did not say was that she needed Leliana to be somewhere she could escape – somewhere she could hide. She would not let her friend become a Broodmother.

Leliana placed a kiss upon each of Solona's cheeks, before pulling her into a tight embrace. "Be careful, _ma chère_ ," she whispered. "When this is done, we will walk the Maker's earth together. No towers for you, I promise." She released her friend and stepped back among their companions.

With a sigh, Wynne step forward and handed Solona her satchel. Confused, Solona peered inside; it was stuffed full with lyrium potions. "Thanks," she whispered, as she positioned the bag over her shoulder.

Wynne only nodded. "Just don't binge drink them all as soon as you're out of sight."

Next it was Shale to speak. "Leaving the statue to guard the gate?" she asked. "It is _most_ original…"

Solona shrugged. "There will be lots of things to crush, at least."

As much is possible for stone, Shale's expression softened. "It will be careful, or I will be most upset."

"This is foolishness," Sten admonished finally. "I am the most trained in combat; I should go."

Solona approached the giant Qunari, and tried her best to meet his glare. "I need you here, Sten. I need you to lead them. No one else can," she reasoned. "If this gate falls, we'll be overrun before we even reach the archdemon. Please."

Sten considered her words for a moment before conceding. "Very well," he answered simply.

"Thank you," Solona replied. She looked to all of her companions that would remain. "Thank you," she addressed them all.

Before she lost her will, Solona turned to Alistair. "Let's go," she ordered.

As they turned to make their way further into the city, Daro trotted up next to Solona. She sighed and knelt down to embrace her mabari. "I need you to stay here," she explained.

Daro whined and pawed at her shoulder.

"You have to look after Wynne for me," Solona tried.

The mabari growled. The bath-mage and he were not the best of friends.

"And Leliana too," Solona amended.

Daro considered this for a moment before nodding. Yes, the belly-rub bard would be worth protecting. He gave a soft lick to Solona's cheek, asking one last time to come along.

She shook her head, and pulled him tighter into her embrace. "I'll be back soon," she whispered. It was a lie.

Daro replied with a happy bark. He cantered back to Leliana's side, stopping only to issue a farewell woof. Solona forced a smile back to her hound before continuing on.

"Three dragons in three months? You've done well on me, Warden," remarked Oghren. "In Orzammar you could barely skewer a nug without some sodding Shaper pissing on your parade."

"What's this?" asked Zevran. "Oh yes, big smelly beasts abound." He wrinkled his nose at Oghren, "And dragons too…"

The party barely made it into the alleys before Alistair stopped them. He glanced hesitantly from Solona to Oghren and Zevran.

Solona understood his silent question. "Yes," she agreed. "They should know."

With a pained sigh, Alistair ran his strained fingers through his hair. "Look," he said to the pair, "there are some things you need to know about the archdemon…"

* * *

 

The Wardens sent the Dalish and the dwarves to the Alienage. For all of their bravery, humans might not… understand the importance of saving those trapped within.

They themselves ventured on to the Market District. The ruins were barely recognizable; the only buildings still standing were the Chantry and Arl Eamon's estate. The party treaded past Goldanna's home. It too had collapsed into smoldering ruins.

Alistair stopped to prod the rubble with an armored toe. His sister had hardly welcomed him with open arms, but no one deserved such a fate. He had promised to use his influence to see that her children were properly cared for. It was a promised that he had had already broken.

Solona swallowed. "I'm sure they fled before the darkspawn even arrived," she lied.

Alistair nodded. There wasn't time to dwell on it now. They moved on.

The party weaved their way through the ruins of the Market. There was no sign of the darkspawn General. Alistair paused to rub his forehead.

"Can you sense it?" asked Solona.

"There's too many darkspawn in the city – I can't sense anything clearly," he admitted.

A rumble beneath their feet interrupted Alistair. The Wardens looked up as four ogres burst from the crumbling ruins of the Gnawed Noble. The beasts tilted their heads and charged at the pair. They made only a few steps before Alistair gently pushed Solona behind him.

Solona sighed and cast a charm of sleep. The monsters collapsed instantly, momentum dragging their limp forms forward a few yards.

Another figure appeared from within the tavern ruins. The party watched as the Hurlock lumbered out the debris. It was clad in menacing spiked armor. Dark banners hung from its back. Its purpose was clear: this was the darkspawn General.

With an utter lack of ceremony, Solona cast another charm of sleep. The General shook it off with a growl. Rubbing her tired forehead, the mage conjured a prison of ice around the creature's body; it held perfectly. The beast thrashed about in its bonds to no avail.

Zevran tapped at his chin. "You think they would learn: big hordes at close range only with mages," he said before drawing his blades and sauntering off. He and Oghren went about the bloody business of decapitating the sleeping ogres. It was only a little macabre to watch the elf leaping from body to body and merrily slitting throats.

It was Alistair's task to execute the General. He marched solemnly to the frozen Hurlock. Its black eyes twitched as it hissed at the Warden. Alistair lifted his sword. "May the Maker forgive you," he breathed, and thrust.

The creature's head rolled dully away, as its body remained frozen upright.

Zevran appeared silently at Solona's side. He took the lyrium bottle from her hands and uncorked it for her. "That was a bit, anticlimactic, no?"

Solona only shrugged as she drank her cure.

A few moments later, Alistair and Oghren rejoined the pair.

"It's hardly over," Alistair warned. "Any minute, the arch-"

An awful, piecing screech reigned down from above. The party turned upwards to witness the end. The archdemon flew in careless circles above the city. It had come for them.

Solona squinted to see a small fleck leap from Fort Draken onto the dragon's back. She gasped. It was Riordan.

The dragon tossed him about like a rag puppet. Solona watched in horror as the small speck of a man tried to climb the monster's back. _Kill it,_ she begged. _Maker give him the strength to kill it._

But the Maker did not hear her. The archdemon gave one final shriek and twisted with enough force to send Riordan flying. The Warden managed to sink his blades into the beast's wings, but it was not enough. They shredded under his weight, and the Warden tumbled to his death.

Solona turned away. Although Riordan must have landed miles away, in her mind she could still hear the sickening crunch as he hit ground. She curled over and vomited into the streets. When at last her stomach was empty, she remained bent over, gasping for air.

A soothing hand rubbed her back. "We have to get to Fort Draken fast," Alistair said with a gentle tone. The knight sighed. "Sol, I want you to go back to the gates. Out of Denerim, even," he tried. "Please. Take Zevran and go," he begged.

Solona gave a few deep, shuttering breaths before righting herself. With unconscious hands, she sought a bottle of lyrium and drank it back. When at last she calmed, she looked deeply into Alistair's worried expression. The kingly mask was gone. He was just her nervous knight, once more. She shook her head; she would go with them to the tower. "Let's go," she ordered, and headed towards the Market's exit.

Alistair swallowed his defeat and followed. Yet, he froze as they reached the front of the Chantry. It was deserted, but surprisingly intact compared to the other lodgings.

"Move it," Oghren ordered, giving him a slight shove.

"I remember," began Alistair, "there's a rumour that tunnels run from the Chantry to Fort Draken. Maybe if we could find them, we could skip under all the darkspawn."

Solona nodded, it was worth a try. It would take them hours - if not days - to fight their way through the infested city.

With an artful bounce, Zevran scurried to the Chantry doors. The lock was no match for his skill, but the doors remained barred from the inside. He gave them an experimental kick to no avail. With a cautious eye, the elf turned to Solona. "Should I…?" he asked.

Solona waved him on. Nothing he could do would alter the Chantry's view of her.

It was Alistair that screamed in opposition as Zevran threw a rock into the stain glass window. "Stop that!" he bellowed. "You can't just throw bloody rocks at the Chantry."

Zevran shrugged. "You would rather the darkspawn do it?" he asked, as he cleared away the remaining glass.

It was no use; the elf had already hopped through the window and unbarred the door. With a great flourish, Zevran propped the doors open and bowed low as Solona entered. "My lady…" he intoned.

Alistair clenched his teeth and followed.

The Chantry was eerily quiet as they barred the door behind them. The inner sanctum was completely undisturbed by the chaos outside. The party walked carefully, ever vigilant of ambush. None came. The Chantry was empty.

Alistair broke off from the party. He called to his companions, "The stairs are this way, if I recall," he said, and trotted off into the dark threshold.

The lower level of the Chantry was as cryptic as one would hope. The stairwell emptied into a dark circular chamber. Shadowed passageways branched off in every direction. A plethora of dusty statues rimmed the walls. The eyes of Andraste, templars and demons alike glared down at the Wardens. For all the fires that burned above, the room remained cold and forbidding. They were not welcome here.

Oghren sniffed at the stale air. "Smells like home: dirt and dread," he scowled.

Alistair turned to Solona. "There are five doors… I guess we just pick one?"

Solona shrugged, and gestured to one at random. Zevran had the lock picked in mere seconds. With much ceremony, he opened the door to reveal a massive crypt within. A foul air wafted out.

"Oh," frowned Alistair. "The Templars' crypt. Try another."

Zevran's efforts revealed two basic storage rooms. The fourth door opened into a long dark passageway. Solona conjured a pair of lightening orbs to traverse its length. The tunnel went on indefinitely.

"This must be it," Alistair observed. He turned back to see Zevran picking the lock of the final door. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

"I was curious, and I figured, I'm being so very helpful, why not finish the job?" Zevran shrugged.

Before Alistair could further object, Zevran kicked open the last door. A strange fog floated out from within. Solona furled her brow. This was … familiar. The companions peeked inside: it was the Denerim phylactery holding. The blood of every living Circle mage was held in small vials here. They sat in rows upon dusty wooden shelves. For shackles, they looked harmless enough.

Solona swallowed a choke. Somewhere in this vault was her own phylactery. Her freedom was within reach. She frowned, now was not the time to be selfish. She turned to Zevran. "Give me a grease trap," she ordered.

He cocked an eyebrow, but reached into his satchel anyways. "Perhaps this is not the best place to set a trap, my dear?" he suggested.

She ignored him, and carefully took the jar of oil from his hands, leaving the triggers behind. She weighed it for a moment, and examined the room beyond the threshold. No, it would not be enough. "Another," was all she commanded.

Zevran sighed and produced another jar.

Solona nodded, contented now. With all her might, she threw one jar and then another deep into holding chamber. The glass shattered with a musical twinkle, while the oil splattered everywhere. Solona took a deep breath. Something good would come out of this Blight. She cast a sustained inferno within the centre of the room, and then slammed the door shut. Within a few moments, the clinking sounds of bursting glass filtered through.

"Andraste's flaming sword, what are you doing?" shouted Alistair.

Solona turned away and marched into the dark hall. "We're fighting for _everyone's_ freedom," she muttered.

Alistair's grabbed her shoulder and spun Solona around. "What? Are you actually going to burn down a Chantry? Bloody Andraste, Solona, the Maker will smite you where you stand!" he bellowed.

Solona pushed away his hand.  "The Maker doesn't care," she argued. "He didn't care when Duncan died. He didn't care when Riordan died. He won't care when we die. And he bloody well won't care if this pile of shit burns."

The pair stared hard at each other, daring the other to argue.  How had they come to this?  Had it truly been only a few short weeks ago that they had looked at each other with utter adoration?  

With a unsteady feet, Solona took two clumsy steps back.  Alistair had once promised her freedom, happiness and love eternal.  Slowly but surely, each vow was crumbling. No.  He could damn well give her this.  If nothing else, he could stand back and let her find her own freedom.  

Solona spun hard on her heel and marched onwards down the darkened corridor.  She tried hard not to let her companions see the tears burning the corner of her eyes.

The party followed in silence.

* * *

 

The passage did indeed lead into Fort Draken. The Wardens found the fortress deserted, and immediately began the long journey to the top of its tower.

They had almost reached the final flight of stairs when a scream echoed down through the tower. Alistair and Solona fell to their knees, gasping.

Zevran rushed to Solona's side and wrapped a steadying arm about her. "What is wrong?" he demanded.

Solona shook her head, still struggling for air, "I don't know," she wheezed.

Next to them, Alistair rose to his feet. "It's the archdemon," he rasped. "It can feel us coming. It's calling for aid." He reached down and pulled Solona roughly to her feet. "We need to hurry," Alistair demanded, and began running up the remaining steps two at a time.

Solona groaned; she had barely made it this far.

"Don't look at me," Oghren warned. "I'm not carrying you."

Solona shook her head, "Yes, I was obviously asking for a ride…"

The dwarf growled, "Oh fine, ya moss-licker. Hop on."

The Warden ignored him and forced herself to follow Alistair as best she could. As they reached the final steps before the tower's top, he stopped her. "I need you to stay back," he said.

Solona sent him a questioning expression.

"I need you to keep back out of the fight. I can't do what I need to do if I have to worry about you getting crushed playing soldier," he continued.

His words tasted of Ostagar. Solona scowled. There was not time to argue. "Fine," she said.

Alistair took in a deep breath before continuing. "And I need you to let me take the final blow." He silenced her before she could reply. "I'm king, Solona, or as good as king, anyways. For all the good and the bad that it entails. This is my job. It's my birthright. It's my duty to the country." He cupped her chin for a moment. "You – all mages – don't owe Ferelden anything."

Another screech reverberated through the tower. The archdemon called.

"Just promise," demanded Alistair.

Time was too short to fight. Solona relented with a nod.

"Good," replied Alistair, relieved. "Let's end this." He kicked opened the tower's final door and together the Wardens and their allies burst onto the platform.

A heavy wind met the tower on its north side, skittered uncertainly across the stones, and came to rest against the beast at the deck's centre. The archdemon was more terrifying than either of the Wardens could remember. They had seen it countless times in dreams and even once before in true life, yet now, only a few steps away, it was a different creature entirely. They could now see the rotted sinews that twisted over its jagged flesh. Dark blood oozed from the gashes Riordan had inflicted. They could see the very Taint upon it.

The archdemon welcomed them with another scream. They were close enough now that Solona could feel the creature's song echoing in her bones. She could feel its words. It recognized her as a Sister of the Taint. It offered her power in exchange for her loyalty. It offered Solona her every desire. It offered her a Thedas free of towers.

Solona rebuffed it and continued forward. The beast was alone for now; its minions had not yet arrived. This would be their best and only chance.

It was Oghren who charged first. The dwarf sped on short legs towards the beast, already harnessing his rage. He slashed wildly at the archdemon's limbs, missing most, but landing enough to further enrage the creature. The archdemon reared up upon its hind feet and struck at Oghren; he went flying across the parapets. The blow only stoked the flames of his fury. Oghren went charging back with a rumbling howl, "Nug Humper!"

Alistair and Zevran joined the fray. The trio weaved around the beast, hacking at any surface they could reach. The archdemon tried to counter them with broad swipes of its claws and searing bursts of green flames. It was useless. The companions moved in synchrony, supporting and guarding the others' attacks.

Solona remained back, madly casting a wide array of spells. She fought to balance healing the gashes of her companions, with hexing the archdemon into confusion, and summoning bolts of Primal lightning.

Progress was slow, but progress was made. At last the archdemon realized that it was outmatched. It opened its wings and flailed wildly to gain lift with the shredded flesh. With unsteady bursts, it rose slowly into the air, and made to fly off the tower.

Oghren gave a roar of rage and shot straight up into the air. On his way down, he chopped down at the beast, severing a wing.

The archdemon crashed back down into the stones of the tower. The companions rushed forward to continue their onslaught, but then stumbled to a halt. A dark ring had formed around the edge of the tower. The darkspawn horde had climbed its way up the side of Fort Draken, and was flowing onto the tower's top.

As one, the trio moved warily to where Solona stood. Backs against each other, they prepared to shield her as she wove her magics.

Solona tore at the Veil summoning every mass spell she could think of. She spun around conjuring ice and fire and lightening and chaos. The tower shone crimson and azure from her efforts. Solona drank back countless potions to keep up her energy, but too soon she ran low. The supply of darkspawn seemed endless.

The front line of the darkspawn closed in upon the companions. The creatures crawled over the corpses of their brethren. The mage could only go on for so much longer.

When at last all seemed lost, a battle cry streamed out from the tower's stairwell. The Wardens turned to see the knights of Red Cliff pour onto the tower. They pushed back against the darkspawn line, sending the howling creatures toppling over the edge of the tower. The soldiers were joined by a dozen Circle mages who took up Solona's position of summoning storms.

Arl Eamon appeared at Alistair's side.

"Get the demon," he shouted. "We'll hold off the darkspawn."

The companions turned once more to the archdemon. It seemed to have regained some strength in its reprieve. Alistair, Zevran and Oghren returned to their task of subduing the beast.

Seeing his chance, Zevran leapt atop Oghren's shoulders and then sprung onto the back of the archdemon. The beast bucked wildly, but Zevran sank his blades deep into its shoulders and clung on. As the archdemon's head swung low, Alistair thrust his sword forward, piecing the creature's eye.

With a piercing shriek, the archdemon spun blindly around. Its tail swiped Alistair and sent him tumbling across the tower.

It was a sufficient distraction; Zevran finally found his goal. He dropped his dagger hastily aside and took his sword into both hands. With pinpoint accuracy he thrust the sword deep into the archdemon's back, severing its spine.

The beast gave a final scream as it collapsed. Its body twitched madly about, as it tried to stand. It was futile: the dragon was paralyzed from the neck down.

Its head lolled about in a growing pool of black blood. The archdemon was dying. A Warden had to strike soon. Solona drew _Spellweaver_ and faced the beast. She did not get far.

Alistair grabbed Solona's arm with bruising fingers. Carefully, he wretched _Spellweaver_ out of her hand, and tossed it carelessly across the tower. It skittered far across the stone surface, and disappeared over the edge of the tower. He released his hold and shook his head. "Did you really think I would let you break that promise?" he asked. He gave her one last sorrowful look, and then turned towards where the archdemon lay. With a deep, shuttering breath, he drew his sword, stepped forward, and froze. The telltale marks of a Glyph of Paralysis glowed blue beneath his feet.

Alistair fought against his bonds with all of his templar training. Solona appeared before him once more. "No," she said. It was useless. His will was strong, but her magic was stronger. She had been saving this spell since they had arrived at Denerim.

Solona raised a gentle hand to brush against Alistair's frozen cheek. "You were right," she whispered, tears building at the edges of her eyes. "We have a duty. We must do what is right for Ferelden," she breathed. "And tomorrow, Ferelden will need a king." She placed her arms around his neck to pull herself into one final embrace.  "So today, Ferelden needs this to be me."

"I love you," Solona confessed. "I will always, always love you." Cold tears ran down her cheeks as she pressed a last kiss upon his lips. "Be good," she whispered with a broken smile, as she pried Alistair's sword from his fingers.

With that, Solona wrenched herself away from her one and only love. She ran with clumsy steps to where the archdemon was subdued by her companions. It was an awful, wretched creature, defiled to the core by the Taint. It writhed about on the stone floor in agony. Solona looked at it with compassion; she would free them both.

Solona met the gaze of Oghren and Zevran. "Thank you," she said. They nodded with sad smiles. They both knew the cost of duty.

Slowly, Solona lifted Alistair's sword in both hands. It was heavier than she remembered. She let its tip fall once more. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks, as she looked back over her shoulder to Alistair. His eyes flickered madly about, begging her to stop. Begging her to free him. Begging her to _live_.

"Good bye," she whispered. With a final breath, she struck.

The light that followed blinded them all.

* * *

 

At the city's gates, the Wardens' companions fell to their knees at the force of the quake that followed the flash of lightening. Around them, the darkspawn let out a collective wail; their commander was dead. They dropped their battles and fled out of the city.

The soldiers of the Grey Warden's army cheered as they chased the creatures from Denerim. High above them, the dark clouds let loose a mist of rain. The city was purging itself. The Blight was over.

When the first of the companions made it to the top of Fort Draken, the sight that awaited them would not soon be forgotten. Countless darkspawn corpses littered the tower. Among them was the occasion knight of Red Cliff. The survivors drifted back and forth. Some helped the injured. Some just stared blindly at the fetid corpse of the archdemon, shocked that they still lived.

On the far edge of the tower, Zevran sat cross-legged with his face hidden in his hands. Next to him, Oghren leaned against a turret, his flask already empty. They were soaked with tears and rain.

And in the centre of it all was Alistair. He clutched at the limp form of his lover and screamed up at the Maker, damning the god for forsaking him. He cursed Andraste, Duncan, Riordan, Cailan, Eamon, and anyone else he think to blame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. 
> 
> Just kidding! Much more to come... We finally get into something new in the next chapter. Yay.


	5. The Quiet

The rain had peaked and waned from dense, piercing sheets into a cleansing shower by the time the last of the Grey Wardens' companions reached the top of Fort Draken's tower. With brittle bones screeching in protest, Wynne stumbled out to find her fellows standing silent just beyond the stairwell's entrance. She pushed between the silent figures of Shale and Sten, and into the tragedy that waited; Alistair knelt upon the tower's harsh stone, holding Solona's limp form in his arms.

"Solona," Wynne gasped and made to rush to the young mage's side.

Zevran stepped into Wynne's path and placed a gentle hand upon her shoulders. "She is gone," he said.

Wynne shook off the elf's grasp and moved to step around him.

Zevran blocked her movements once more. "No, Wynne ... when the Archdemon is slain, a Warden…" his voice hitched for a moment as he tried to shield his emotions. "A Warden dies," he finished simply. Zevran feigned a cough as he regained himself. "She is dead, Wynne. She is dead," he forced. "Just let Alistair be."

Wynne's gaze fell to where Alistair knelt. The knight still clutched his lover in his arms, gently rocking her lifeless form. His lips moved next to Solona's ears, whispering incoherent words of love, despair and regret.

Wynne nodded, as her own tears began to form; she would give Alistair this moment.

* * *

 

Solona Amell was dead. Of this, she was quite certain. She had cut down the Archdemon and felt its spirit flow through the Taint and into her. She had felt the fire ignite in her blood as her body was consumed in the battle for control. She had felt herself lose. She had felt herself drag the Archdemon down with her. She had felt herself die.

Before her death, the screams of the darkspawn and the winds of the tempest that enveloped her had rung deafening in Solona's ears. There had been the clangs of armor and the scrapes of steel. But now, all was silent.

Solona hazarded opening an eye. There was a grey sky and little else. She lay upon her back, the cold of the earth slowly seeping into her spine. From head to toe, every inch of Solona ached. She frowned. Wasn't death supposed to be free of pain? Slowly Solona managed to sit upright, all of her muscles moaning in protest. She glanced about, weighing how she would spend the rest of Time. This was the Fade, certainly. There was grey earth and grey sky, punctuated only by the occasional bit of grey foliage. And here she was, the Grey Warden, home at last.

Solona had always imagined that the Fade of the Dead was somehow different than the Fade of the Living she had visited several times before. Yet, this was hardly any different than the island where she had been Harrowed. Perhaps the Chantry had been right all along: those that loved and were loved by the Maker would return to his throne in death, and those that shunned him were cursed to wander the barren Fade for all eternity. Apparently being a mage was shunning enough.

 _Alistair_. Her mind came to him at last. _Alistair._ Her love – her only love. Solona would never see him again. Never hear his sweet words again. Never touch him. Never feel his love again. Her heart ached for him as the Fade grew colder about her. It had been her choice to slay the Archdemon. Solona cringed as she wished she had grabbed Alistair and ran out of the city as fast as her legs would carry her. She was a coward. There was no comfort in knowing that the result would have been the same regardless of her choice – Alistair would have slain the Archdemon, and they would have been separated anyways. And then, alone and imprisoned in some tower, Solona would have withered to her death shortly thereafter. This way, at least Alistair lived – at least Ferelden prospered. It had only been a few minutes since her death, but Solona missed him already; she missed all of her companions. An awful pain welled up in her chest, as Solona wondered if she would long for Alistair for all eternity, or if someday, someway, the pain would fade.

Solona let her eyes flutter closed as she lay back one more. Did she deserve this fate? Perhaps. As a child, she had loved the Maker as the Chantry sisters and Templars had demanded. She had prayed to him every night, asking him to forgive her sin: her magic. As Solona had grown, she came to question the Chantry. Magic was good. Magic was beautiful. Magic was a gift from the Maker. Yet Andraste had condemned the Tevinter Magisters, and with it, all the mages of the Thedas. How many nights had Solona spent in the Circle's Chantry wondering why she should revere the woman who reviled her? And so, Solona had turned her back on Andraste's Chantry, and hence the Maker himself. So, the Chantry had been right all along. The Maker had no home for mages after they left the mortal realms.

Somewhere the Revered Mothers and Knight-Commanders of Ferelden were celebrating her death; one less Abomination now stalked the Thedas. Solona was too tired to fight it now. She longed for peaceful rest - oblivion - yet it seemed so far out of reach. The chill of the Fade weaved itself through her bones. She tried to will herself into endless sleep; it would not come. There was no comfort to be found here.

So… now what? Solona contemplated staying there forever. If she truly was unable to fall into an everlasting sleep, then how should she spend the wasteful hours of Eternity? She sat up and looked towards the horizon. In the distance was the Black City, supposedly viewable from all the Fade, and yet forever unreachable. The Chantry said that the Taint started there, as somehow the Tevinter Magisters breeched the spirit realms and set foot in the Maker's sanctuary: the Golden City. A thought rose to the surface of Solona's mind. Should she go there - to the Black City? Solona wanted to see it - feel what had condemned all of her kind. Maybe she should go find the Maker while she was at it, give the fool god a piece of her mind. Of course it was impossible, but with the rest of Time on her side, surely she would make _some_ progress. And if not, would it matter? A perilous journey would certainly distract her from some of the aching longing for Alistair that twisted in her heart.

And –

Solona choked for a moment. What happened if she died in the Fade? Obviously, she was already dead, but what would happen now if an army of demons tore into her flesh? When she had lived, the worst that she faced was awaking in her mortal body, back safely in Ferelden. But now, there was no mortal body awaiting her. Would she perhaps drift into some secondary Fade? The land of the Dead's dead? Or would she just remain torn in bloody pieces until the Maker rebuilt the Fade and the Thedas anew?

An eternity inside a demon's belly – the thought was too awful to bear; Solona shook the dismal prospect from her mind.

With a sigh, Solona stood up to survey about her - and jumped sideways with a start. Lying motionless upon the grey Fade earth was a faint entity. Had it been there the whole time? She could not tell. Solona stepped carefully forward to regard it. It was a spirit of some sort. A shapeless, massless creature - more trick of light than solid structure. It rippled in the Fade's haze, as if deciding upon a proper form.

It was sometimes hard to remember that not only demons roamed the Fade; there were also spirits and of course mortals like Solona herself. Most spirits chose to pass mortals unnoticed and uninterested, but there were those like Wynne's benevolent spirit that would offer aid to lost humans.

Solona leaned in closer. It certainly did not seem dangerous - more curious than frightening. She sighed, wishing she had a stick to prod it.

The haze began to collapse in upon itself. It slowly grew shape and organization, until at last it reached its final form. Solona stared wide-eyed as a tiny infant appeared before her. She stepped back once more, looking about for signs of foul-play. There were no other creatures about; Solona was alone, save for the tiny babe.

The child was new born – a few days at most. It was wrapped haphazardly in a white linen sheet. Cubby fists brushed against pink cheeks, as the infant regarded Solona with big, blue eyes. It seemed harmless – defenceless, more so.

Solona crouched down next to the cooing child, wondering how it came to be here. Perhaps it had been lost to the darkspawn horde… she stopped herself. It was too horrible to think about. Solona sighed. So this was it then? The Maker sent mages and babies to rot together? She could almost reconcile her own fate here, but leaving an innocent child to the wastes of the Fade stripped the Maker of all Divinity in her eyes.

The glaring question was, of course, what did she do with it? The chill in her bones told Solona that she should not – could not – stay here forever. But what of the child?

A frown curved its way across Solona's lips. She did not like children. It was really that simple. At the Tower, Irving had done his best to maintain the sick façade that the Circle Tower was more a school than a prison, and had once assigned Solona a trio of Junior Apprentices to mentor. She had seen about 17 summers at the time, and they - wretched, unwashed mice – could not have been more than 8 years of age. Solona had hated the way they _needed_. They needed her help with every spell. They needed to be herded about like cattle. They needed a snack. They needed a nap. Eventually, Solona pawned her wards off onto Jowan, before they drove her ma.

And yet this babe seemed so very different. It certainly needed more than any apprentice she had been saddled with, but for some reason, Solona felt that she was willing to give to this child. Perhaps it was its innocence or maybe even just the fear of an eternity alone that drove her.

Solona sighed as she reached a decision. With a careful spell, she summoned a tiny ring of embers midway up the skirt of her robes. The flames lasted barely a moment before extinguishing themselves, severing a foot or so of cloth from her garment. She gathered the fallen cloth and fastened it about her shoulders into a sling. Carefully, Solona lifted the infant and its blanket into her sling, and secured it there.

"You're lucky I died in my Circle robes, and not the Tevinter set," she muttered.

With that, Solona turned towards the Black City in the distant horizon. It was said that no unwelcome mortal could reach it from the Fade, but Solona was certain her magics were strong enough to guide her. She would reach the city and confront the Maker for his injustices. Or at very least, she would spend the rest of Eternity trying.

* * *

 

The rains had ceased, leaving only a cool breeze to chill the bones to the Warden's companions. Time itself had stalled. Around the tower, they slumped in silence. They could find no words nor actions to right the wrong before them. Except for one.

Daro skirted to and fro before Alistair's shaking form. The mabari whined and barked, trying to make the foolish human understand.

Alistair ignored him.

Daro whined and scrapped his paw against the tower's stones. With a short bark he paced about a small circle before tugging once more upon the hem of Solona's robes.

"She's dead!" Alistair screamed, kicking out at the hound. "Leave her alone."

The hound cowered for a brief second, before running off towards the silent crowd of companions. Daro barked at the sullen group, but none would pay him any heed. Finally, he slunk behind Wynne, and gave her a steady push with his head.

The old mage stumbled for a moment before regaining her defeated stance. Daro barked and nudged Wynne once more.

Wynne was not ready for this. It was all so _wrong_. Part of her cried out, protesting that this was all real. Perhaps if she just waited and closed her eyes the world would right itself, and ... Wynne shook herself; she was much, much too old to live in daydreams. "Yes," she nodded to the hound. "It's time."

With tired body and broken heart, Wynne strode towards the sobbing king. "Alistair?" she hesitated. "Alistair, my boy, we should ... " her words trailed off. Anything she said now would be hollow and heartless. She squeezed her tired eyes closed for a moment, blocking out all the anguish that radiated into her. No. This had to be done. "Alistair," Wynne sighed. "We have to go now."

The boy only shook his sandy hair and clutched tighter to Solona.

Wynne felt cruel for even trying. "Alistair," she said again, this time placing a gentle hand upon his shoulder, "It's time to let go."

When she received no response, Wynne knelt down in front of him, with Solona's silent form between them. The old mage felt the prickle of tears well up into her eyes once more. It wasn't fair. Solona was so young; she had so much potential. And now the poor girl was dead.

"Alistair," Wynne voice sounded hollow in her own ears. "I know it hurts, but..." she stopped. There was really nothing at all she could say. With hands that felt weighted with a thousand years of strain, Wynne reached out to run a gentle trail along Solona's brow.

Wynne gasped as she pulled back her hand. She blinked for a moment before regaining herself and placing her palm firmly over Solona's forehead. Her breath quickened as she fought to the find the words.

"She's still here," Wynne choked. "I can feel her, Alistair. She's still here."

The knight turned to Wynne with eyes wide and jaw hanging lose in disbelief. His hands leapt to Solona's throat, feeling, praying for any sign of a pulse.

"She's just barely hanging on. I think I can..." Wynne began, as a pale blue light began to glow around her hands. It travelled down across Solona's brow and into her chest, where it began to shine white and strong.

The commotion and light drew the Wardens' companions near; behind them crowded their remaining allies. Together they huddled over the Wardens with sort breathes and prayers upon their lips.

The light upon Solona's chest grew stronger by the moment, until when at last it was too bright to watch, a faint thump against Alistair's fingers caused him to cry out in hope and relief and panic: a pulse, where there was none just a moment before.

"Heal her! Wake her up!" he demanded, irrational and shouting at the old woman before him.

Wynne shook her head; more grey locks fell free. "She's too weak. We need to get her inside." As she moved to stand, exhaustion flooded the healer and her knees gave way. A young mage shot out from the crowd and grabbed Wynne's arm, steadying her old mentor.

"Petra." Wynne said with a faint smile.

Shale pushed forward, extending her stone arms out to Alistair. "I will take It below," the golem announced, and was promptly ignored. Alistair only clutched tighter at Solona.

All fell silent when a faint gasp broke from Solona's lips as she took her first breath in what felt like an eternity.

"Solona!" Alistair shouted. "I'm sorry. Oh Maker, I'm sorry.  I love you. I need you." he continued to beg, shrugging off any who attempted to remove the Warden from his grasp.

"Alistair, we need to get her inside," Leliana pleaded upon deaf ears.

Only Wynne's voice managed to make its way to the knight. He glanced up as the mage turned to her apprentice.

"Petra," he heard Wynne whisper, "I need you to..." but could make out no more. The young mage looked shocked, but nodded in agreement as she began to call upon the Fade.

And then Alistair's world went black.

* * *

 

Solona had marched towards the Black City for some time now. How long exactly, she had no way for knowing. Perhaps it had been a day, perhaps a fortnight, perhaps a year, perhaps a lifetime.

Beyond the constant, nagging fatigue that laced itself throughout the Fade, Solona never actually grew tired nor hungry. At one point, she had tried to sleep - more out of ritual than requirement. She had lain down upon the dusty Fade earth with the babe at her side and shut her eyes. Eventually, when nothing at all transpired, she rose and continued on her way.

Solona looked down at the child in her sling. It too seemed unable to sleep. It never cried, nor fussed. It just lay in the sling, inquisitive eyes fixed upon her. Now and again, it would wave a chubby fist and coo, but nothing more.

It could have been much worse, Solona concluded. Death, that is, could have been much worse.

Yet then again, Life could have been _so_ much better. How could she have died so young, and yet amassed so very many regrets? She should have learned more Blood Magic. She should have taken Morrigan's dark offer. She should have broken out the Tower with Jowan years ago. She should have kissed Cullen. She should have slapped Anora. She should have never let Alistair take the crown. She should have - Solona stumbled for a moment with a frown. This wasn't helping anyone.

They said that some factions of the Dalish had come to believe in reincarnation. Perhaps she would get another chance to live without remorse - but that was nothing but a foolish hope. Solona shook herself from the memories, and continued on towards the Black City with a quickened pace.

Far behind her, a scent of demons began to gather.

* * *

 

The first rays of sunlight found Alistair Theirin passed out in a barren hallway. The future king had alternated between fitful sleep and anxious staring at the locked door before him since their arrival at the palace.

It had been four days since the defeat of the Archdemon. As soon as the palace had been secured, an armed escort of nearly fifty soldiers and mages had moved the fragile form of Solona Amell across Denerim to a lavish stateroom. Wynne had protested at first - the Warden was still much too weak to be moved - but eventually all agreed that it would be cruel to expect Solona to heal in a prison tower.

Upon their arrival, it had taken less than hour of Alistair getting in the way - sitting next to Solona, trying to hold her hand, asking her to forgive him, begging her to wake up - before Wynne ordered Petra to engage in high treason once more, and hex the future king into sleep for a second time. The story of how a half-dozen tiny mages proceeded to drag the sleeping sovereign into the hall and dump him unceremoniously there would circle the dormitories of the palace guard for years to come.

Alistair was forced to sit and stare at the locked door from the hall as a constant string of mages filtered in and out in shifts. Apparently only mages could open the enchanted door, leaving Alistair to alternate between shifts of frantic pacing and frenzied hammering upon the barrier, demanding that Wynne let him in. Of course, the mage did not. Oh, he could have gotten into that room. He could have called in the templars and had them tear the palace apart. He could have charged into the room and pulled her into his arms , and ... she would have hated him all the more for it. _If_ she ever woke up.

At some point, Arl Eamon had arrived and taken a silent seat next to him. Alistair failed to acknowledge his uncle, manically tapping away at his chair arm instead. Eventually, the Arl could wait no more. "Alistair, my boy," Eamon began. "People are starting to return to Denerim."

The king did not so much as grace his uncle with a glance. "Wonderful..." Alistair muttered, staring onwards at the locked door. His tapping fingers kept a steady pace.

The Arl tried another route, "We've received word that the Orlesian Grey Wardens should be here within a week."

"Great."

"The nobles are requesting that your coronation take place as soon as possible; they want to return to their homes to rebuild."

"Stupendous."

"The palace is overrun with darkspawn and we're all going to die."

"Thank Blessed Andraste."

"Alistair!" Eamon finally shouted, giving the Warden a slight shove.

Alistair blinked for a moment before turning his grim gaze towards the Arl. "What?" he asked coldly.

"You have to snap out of this, my boy." Eamon urged. "There is an entire country to rebuild; your people need you."

"No. They need someone to sit on the throne and look pretty. You can run Ferelden without me, Eamon," Alistiar mumbled. "Solona _needed_ me, and I spat in her face."

The Arl flopped down in his own chair. He was too tired and too old to deal with this. He wanted nothing more than a good night sleep and a few hours with his wife and child. It would be so very easy to just leave for Red Cliff. In the end, Eamon's diplomatic side won out; he attempted to reason with Alistair. "Solona's actions were her own choosing. She did what she did so you could be on the throne - so _you_ could look after Ferelden."

The tapping halted. Eamon sat up; perhaps he had actually reached the boy.

"What would I even say to her if ... if she wakes up?" Alistair asked.

Eamon stooped once more; his attempts remained futile.

" 'Hello my love, sorry I called you an Abomination'?" Alistair began to tap at the chair's arm once more. "Or how about: 'My, my, don't you look lovely today Solona? Thanks for dying for me. Incidentally, could you just do me a favour and just disappear somewhere?'"

"Would you rather tell her that she risked death for nothing? That you would let the throne fall to chaos and all her pains - in body and soul - were for naught?" the Arl demanded, his voice a combination of desperation and irritation.

"Oh? Yes, I think my dear lady would love to hear that Alistair pissed on her heart for a cause without conviction," came a voice from across the hall.

Alistair and Eamon spun about to see Zevran and Leliana leaning against the far wall.

"Zevran...that was ... _unkind_ ," Leliana chastised half-heartedly.

The elf only shrugged in response.

The two rogues had been present the most of any of the companions. Of course Wynne was only a few yards away, hidden behind the dark door, but Alistair had not actually seen her for days. Apparently Oghren had grown restless within a few hours of waiting and declared that he was going hunting for straggling darkspawn. Unwilling to do nothing but wait for Solona's recovery or demise, Shale and Sten had silently joined him.

"How long have you been there?" Eamon demanded of the pair. The Arl had seen them fight loyally at Solona's side time and again, but he could still not bring himself to trust them. An Antivan and an Orlesian could hardly have Ferelden's best interests in mind. If he could, he would have them respectfully removed from the palace. Yet, Alistair insisted that the so-called Chantry sister have free reign of the palace - and it seemed that no lock nor guard could keep the elf from wandering at will.

Zevran shrugged once more. "Oh you know. We go here. We go there."

Eamon could only shake his head as he rose to his feet. With the foreigners hanging about, there was no point in trying to discuss anything official with the boy. "Alistair," he said, "I'm going to start making plans for a coronation. Solona knew this is for the best." He gave Alistair one last long glare, "Think about what _she_ really wanted."

Silence filled the room after Eamon disappeared through the passageway. It was sometime later when Leliana began to hum a soft tune and strum sweetly upon her lute, pushing back the oppressive quiet. The notes seemed to drift below Alistair's skin and release some of the turmoil seething there.

It was some long hours later when the door to Solona's chamber suddenly slammed opened. Wynne had barely slept more than a few hours since their arrival at Denerim, yet neither her fatigue nor her age prevented her from rattling the door upon its hinges. She stamped to where Alistair sat, ashen grey, even in surprise. Without warning, Wynne lifted a hand and slapped him hard across the cheek. Tears streamed down from the corners of her eyes.

"Wynne," Alistair choked. "Is she – "

The mage silenced him with the accusing thrust of a finger. "Tell me you didn't know," she rasped, face red in fury. "King or not, I will take you over my knee…" Wynne shook herself from the thought, and jabbed her finger sharply into Alistair's chest. "Swear to me you didn't know."

Alistair stammered for a moment. "I didn't know!" he exclaimed, and then crossed his brows. "What, exactly, didn't I know?"

Wynne trembled as she ran a hand through her snowy hair; her fingers caught in the snarled ends that sprang free from her bun. With a cold breath, she lowered her hands to her side. Of course the boy didn't know. There was no way that he, or Solona or anyone else for that matter, could have known. She drew another long breath, forcing herself to be calm.

"Solona is with child."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It always bothered me that if you were a Human Noble, you could get around the whole Tainted childbirth thing with a sex joke... but if you were a Human Mage, it was utterly insurmountable. On that note, this is warning that the story henceforth won't be about the Wardens' happy family time - there's still darkspawn running amuck! And besides, Solona can't just forgive Alistair that easily.


	6. The Hard Place

Alistair released the breath he had not realized he was holding. With it, his very last embers of anxiety and strain extinguished themselves, leaving only a fulfilled sense of calm within him.

Life had not been easy for the former Grey Warden. Growing up unwanted - a burden - had left him hollow for too many dark years. Too often he had thought the tides of his fortunes changing, only to be left bitterly disappointed. The very worst of it had almost cost Alistair his wife and child.

Alistair smiled, things were _right_ now. He watched his children frolic about with Daro, the great mutt, laughing and chattering with their sweet innocence. His eldest, Duncan, would be six soon and what a strapping young lad he was turning into. Alistair had presented the boy with a wooden practice sword a few months ago and had struggled to maintain a stern repose when his son's eyes lit up with excitement.

Trailing slightly behind, as she wove a flower crown for the mabari, was Wynne, his little angel. She was barely four and had already managed to secure Alistair firmly about her little finger; her slightest smile was all it took to set him aglow. She was strong-willed and clever - the very splitting image of her mother...

Her mother...

From her position, tucked under his arm at his side, Solona turned to smile up at him. She was radiant. No. Radiant was an insult. She was something much more - far surpassing Breathtaking and leaving Divine trampled in the dust. And somehow, against all the faithless odds of the universe, she was his wife. The mother of his children. The keeper of his heart. The other half of his soul.

They shared a quiet life away in the rolling country hills, far away from demands of Denerim. They were no longer Wardens, mages, kings or otherwise. Here, in the bright afternoon sun, they were simply Man and Wife. Mother and Father. It was everything Alistair had ever wanted. It was everything Alistair had always ... _deserved._

Deserved.

A chill stabbed through Alistair's heart as the sky darkened. His gaze shot back to the field; his children had vanished. He scanned the horizon too panicked to move, as the lush green hills began to crumble to ash. The corners of Alistair's vision fluttered and faded as his world began to disappear.

Swallowing down the fear in his throat, Alistair turned back to his wife. The sight that awaited him choked him once more: Solona's glow was gone, leaving only a dull husk of a woman. She was ashen, sickly, and dying before his very eyes.

"What do I deserve?" she asked him finally, cold and aching. "What do I deserve?"

With a start and a yelp, Alistair awoke as he landed unceremoniously on the floor. After a moment as a muddled heap of limbs, understanding began to flow back to the templar. Dreams. He wanted to spit at the notion. Apparently the Fade felt it necessary to be extra cruel as of late.

Of course, there was no happy family in a hilly paradise awaiting Alistair. Solona remained in the unending sleep that had befallen her a few weeks before. The mages told Alistair she was "stable", but as the Warden soon came to understand, "stable" had two meanings. Yes, she was not getting any worse: the mages no longer had to force her every breath and her external wounds seemed to be healing. However, Solona was not getting any better either. Her coma could not be broken by any combination of magic, medicine or alchemy they had tried.

To top off all matters, there was the child to consider now too. The thought almost brought the slightest of smiles to Alistair's lips as he knelt back down next to Solona's bed. He was going to be a father. It was wonderful and terrifying and absurd all at once. If had he known of his child a month ago, Alistair would have married his beloved on the spot and then shipped her off somewhere far away where she and the baby could be safe. Instead, he had effectively told his sweet lady to bugger off and then let her die. Oh, and to top it off, he had called her unworthy of being his whore.

Yes, his family skills were phenomenal already.

With Solona's condition now stable - for all the good and bad that it entailed - the constant stream of mages in and out of the chamber had dropped off. In fact, only a handful of Wynne's favourite students still remained in Denerim. Where once he was forced to pace the cold halls outside, Alistair was now welcome to spend long private hours at his beloved's side. Private-ish anyways; Daro lay upon a carpet near the fire, shooting dagger glares at Alistair.

With the gentlest of touches, Alistair took Solona's pale hand in his own and placed a soft kiss upon it. "It's a mess, Sol. I've fouled it all up," he sighed to his lover's sleeping form. He lifted her hand to place it upon his cheek, as she had a thousand times before. "But I'm going to make it right, my love. I swear. I'm going to make this right." Together with their child, they would have a Happy Ending.

A slight cough caused him to spin around. Leliana and Wynne stood with awkward smiles at the doorway. How had he not heard them come in?

"Alistair, what have I said about letting her rest?" Wynne admonished.

The future king of Ferelden could only frown and shake his head at the motherly scolding. Wynne could complain all she liked, but there was no way in the Maker's Thedas that Alistair was going to stop holding Solona's hand.

"At least you've both learned to stay off the bed," the mage sighed, giving Daro a pointed glance.

The mabari rose and gave Wynne an indignant snort. With a shake that started at the tip of his nose and travelled down to the end of his tail, Daro stretched and wandered over to Solona. He was a practical companion. The mabari knew that - intense loyalty or not - there was no point in wasting away at his Master's side. Instead, as always, he had a job to do. With a quick lick at Solona's hand to tell her that he would return shortly, Daro trotted out of the chamber to perform his rounds, find some food and mark a tree or two.

Leliana fidgeted under the uncomfortable silence that followed the dog's departure. "I was going to sing to Solona for a while ..." she said, holding out her lute.

It was subtle, but Alistair could hear the uncertainty in her words; she was asking his permission. "Yes, of course," he replied, backing away to one of the many scattered chairs.

The bard glided to the far side of the bed and positioned herself in the overstuffed chaise waiting there. With a graceful flick, she strummed the strings once to test the tuning and then began her song.

_Little Sparrow, little Sparrow,_   
_Won't you please come home?_   
_Your children are crying,_   
_Your nest has gone cold._   
_Oh Little Sparrow, Little Sparrow,_   
_Won't you please come home?_

Alistair watched as Wynne bent over his sleeping lover and carefully poured the contents of a blue vial down her throat. Lyrium. Even in sleep, Solona's body demanded a constant supply. In the first few days following the defeat of the Archdemon, Solona had frequent fits. She would twist and twitch and moan in her sleep; her violent movements threatening to do herself an injury. It shamed them all how long it took to realize the cause; no one had believed her to be _that_ dependent upon the blue poison.

So now Solona was dosed with lyrium twice a day. It made Alistair sick to watch it. They had driven her to it - the frequent battles, their petty requests, and the constant dependency upon her magic. If he had been even half a worthy lover, he would have stopped this from ever happening. He should have paid better attention to the signs. Maker knew that as a templar he had seen his fair share of lyrium withdraw. Yet he had been a selfish fool, too preoccupied by the heady joy of love and sex to notice his lover drowning herself.

Alistair sighed. This too would be fixed. If Solona ever awoke, he would get her off the lyrium by whatever means necessary.

_Little Sparrow, little Sparrow,_   
_Won't you please come home?_   
_Your song grows silent,_   
_Your tears fall alone._   
_Oh Little Sparrow, Little Sparrow,_   
_Won't you please come home?_

A hand upon his should startled Alistair back to the present.

"Alistair," Wynne began. "We should have a word outside."

He gave a weary nod and led the mage into an adjoining room. A quick survey revealed it to be empty, leaving Alistair alone with Wynne and ready for whatever scolding she had prepared for him.

"The lyrium is a problem," she stated plainly.

Alistair nodded. They had been over this before.

The old mage shook her head. "Perhaps you should sit down, my boy," she said.

With a deep sigh, Alistair fell into a chair. "Oh. What a relief. I thought you were actually going to give me some good news or something."

"I'm afraid we're still far away from that," Wynne lamented as she drew her own seat forward. She cleared her throat and began again. "The lyrium is a problem. My students have been doing some research - you must understand there is very little studied on this matter." She paused to take in a deep breath. "For Solona alone, it would be ... an inconvenience to her recovery." Wynne looked up to meet Alistair's gaze. It was not fair to keep piling the bad news upon the poor boy.

"But ... ?"

"But, for an unborn child exposed to lyrium for too long," she faltered. "The outlook is not promising."

Alistair let his head fall. Just like that, any hope of a distant Happy Ending vanished.

"It's not certain though - it's much too hard to predict," Wynne continued.

With a hollow voice, Alistair choked the words: "How bad?"

Wynne furled her brows. This was all so wrong. She wanted to spare the boy the pain of it all. She wanted to pull him into a mother's embrace and promise him that everything would be fine in the morning. Yet Alistair deserved the truth, even at the cost of the pain it would bring him.

"I - I cannot say for certain," she began. "If we keep supplying the lyrium for another month or so... it will not survive."

Alistair nodded without looking up. He had somehow been expecting that answer. "In the worst case?" he managed.

"It's too hard to say, Alistair. There are simply too many factors to consider, and -"

Alistair cut her off, "Please, Wynne."

The old mage swallowed. Yes, he deserved the truth. "We'll lose them both," she replied simply.

Alistair nodded again. _I'm sorry Solona._

"But..." Wynne began again, uncertain if the boy was even still listening. "Alistair, we have options."

He snapped. "Bloody Andraste, Wynne, just say it. Just say all of it," Alistair shouted.

Wynne made to stand for a moment. She wanted to smack the boy across the ears for his outbursts. Didn't he realize this was hard for everyone? Didn't he realize this pained her too? Didn't he realize ... she stopped herself. She was much too old to snap at someone in agony. With a deep sigh, she explained it all at once. "We have three options. We can continue on as we are now, and sacrifice the health of the child. We can stop giving Solona lyrium, with considerable risk both their safeties."

Alistair nodded, recalling Solona's first distressing days after the Archdemon.

"Or we can sever Solona's tie with the Fade to ensure the safety of the child."

Alistair lifted for a moment. "What happens if we go with the third option?"

In an instant, Wynne regretted ever saying it. But no, she had decided upon the truth. "All the problems with lyrium stem from the Fade. The only way to truly cure lyrium addiction is to move the patient into space barred from the Fade. We had such a place in the Circle Tower, and I believe there is one here in the palace dungeons. If you place the addict in such a chamber and deny them lyrium, they will not grapple with the Veil; they will recover with their senses intact."

Alistair's nervous laugh broke Wynne's words. "Maker's Breathe, Wynne, why didn't you just say that from the start?"

Wynne held up her hand to silence him. There was much more to be said. "Right now, Solona is walking in the Fade. If we move her to such place, it will destroy her path out of it."

Alistair shook his head. He did not understand.

"She will never wake-up."

Alistair stood with such force it knocked the chair behind him over. With a sharp breath, he turned away from Wynne with fists clenched at his sides. Solona's disdain for the Maker was finally beginning to make sense. How heartless would his god have to be to show him a future of love and family, and then wrench it all away? He wanted to punch something. Wreck something. Break everything in the blasted room.

"What are you going to do?" he asked at last without turning.

The mage gave a hollow laugh. "I will do whatever you ask me to do," she said. "It has to be you that decides." Her wrinkled brows grew soft for a moment. "Solona would want it to be you."

The question should have troubled Alistair. It should have agonized him for weeks to come and then, having finally made a decision, drowned him with regret. It should have at least taken him a moment to decide.

But it did not.

"Make Solona well. No matter what."

* * *

 Solona let herself drop awkwardly onto her bottom with a sigh. She was exhausted. The Fade was exhausting.

She had long since given up trying to true guess the passage of time. When the question would inevitably creep into her mind, she would silence it again with a single thought: Forever.

As she journeyed onwards towards the Black City, Solona talked to the child. At first to keep from going mad, then later since she was definitely already mad. She told the babe of her life within the Tower, and how she was quite certain that sooner or later, at some point before the end of Time, she would come to miss it. 

Solona then carried on with stories of her quests as a Grey Warden. The tales spun her through the highs and lows of emotions again and again. Sometimes she would even manage a laugh when relaying a story of Zevran's or Oghren's antics. Often she would vent and shout at the ridiculousness of it all: the petty squabbles, the fool's errands, the secrets that somehow everyone in the bloody Thedas save her seemed to already know.

Yet, mostly, Solona avoided Alistair. She censored her every thought before allowing its broadcast. For all that his memory burned in the centre of her heart, Solona was certain that the only way to tolerate Eternity was to forget Alistair. Forget him and perhaps one day she could cast off his memory as easily as he had cast off their love.

Solona sighed as she gathered a handful of the Fade's sickly brown weeds within her hand. "It's all garbage anyways," she told the child. "I'm never going to reach the Black City. I'm never going to forget him and ..." She held the child up to her eyes. As always, it cooed and blinked at her with eyes like dawn's first light. "And you," she admitted, "Are never going to care."

_We care._

In an instant Solona leapt to her feet with the child clutched to her chest. She spun around with a flourish of tattered robes to face a pair of Desire Demons looming behind her.

Together they wafted in the ether like violet mirages. Their black eyes shone liquid bright against the grey sky.  Warm smiles hid serrated teeth. _We care so much for you,_ the demons called to her, reaching out with barbed talons.

Solona screamed at herself for being such a fool. How had she not noticed them coming? Had she become so petty in her pity that demons could just waltz up and sink their claws into her spine?

 _We want you to be happy,_ they sang. _Let us give you Joy._

Solona shook herself back to her senses. This was good. This was different. This was going to be fun. She secured the child back into its sling. With a smile, she held both her palms towards the grey sky before her. "Let me give you fire," she taunted back to the demons as flames poured forth from her hands.

_We wish you no harm. Give us the child and we will give you Happiness._

"What?" The flames in Solona's hands faltered. Why in Bloody Andaste's name would they want the child?

_Give us the babe. It is a burden to carry. Carry Pleasure instead._

"No."

The demons grew black, and then tall. _We will take it from you,_ they warned.

Solona gave a cold laugh. With barely a flick of the wrist, she began to channel the fury of the Elements and the very essence of the Fade into her core. "You must be joking," she called back, as lightning began to cackle about her.

_Give it to us and we will spare you._

"Are you blind?" Solona laughed. "I'll destroy you!"

 _Not them._ In unison, the demons lifted a spiny claw and pointed far off to Solona's right.

Never trust a demon. It was a simple enough rule, and yet the most paramount lesson taught to any Circle mage. Demons lie. One must be a fool to trust a demon. It was that simple.

And yet it was not that simple - for only a fool would not look.

Solona's eyes darted to her right. Her stomach dropped; in the distance a great mass of black and red poured over the horizon. Demons. Thousands of them, of every variety. And they were coming straight for her.

There was no more time to waste. Dust clouded the air as Solona sent flames and lightening swirling towards the Desire Demons. There as brief chorus of shrieks as they crumbled to ash, banished back to wherever demons spawned.

And then, Solona ran.


	7. The Fall

More days passed.

To be exact: two weeks, six days, three hours and twelve minutes had passed since Solona struck down the Archdemon. Alistair knew this, because he had counted every second.

He had become used to the certain degree of tedium that had settled into Solona's chambers. Wynne and a handful of her apprentices would bustle in and out a few times each day. In the afternoon, Leliana would appear to sing and fix Solona's hair. To be honest, Alistair saw no real point in either task, but it broke up the hopelessness that seemed to cloud the air.

The most constant presences were, of course, Alistair and Daro. Both had come to terms with the other's company, but neither was very happy about it. Indeed, both were quite certain that Solona would be happier if the other left. Daro did occasionally leave to perform his rounds, and Alistair was frequently locked-out by Wynne, but neither wavered in his belief that he was the most important figure in Solona's life, and that she needed him there.

There was another whose presence Alistair was always aware of, but never actually witnessed. Zevran had made himself scarce since Wynne had begun to allow Solona visitors. Although he had not seen the assassin in days, whenever Alistair left Solona's side, a red rose would appear at her bedside. A red _Antivan_ rose.

The elf drove Alistair mad. During the Blight the little imp had gone so far as to proposition Solona not 10 feet from where Alistair stood. His lovely mage had laughed off the joke that was most certainly _not_ a joke and that should have been the end of that. But Zevran was persistent, and charming, and exotic and ... had never betrayed her as Alistair had.

Thus the assassin gave Alistair yet another reason to protest leaving Solona's side, especially when Eamon demanded 'a walk' with him. Like right now. Alistair frowned as he followed the Arl through the castle. It sucked.

A small crowd of lunching guards had gathered in the dusty courtyard. Together they cheered and jeered a pair of sparring soldiers.   Alistair let Eamon draw him towards the mass. In his few excursions away from Solona, he had seen all the palace guards hard at work. They toiled day and night to help rebuild the city, fend off thieves and keep watch for straggling Darkspawn. In the wake of the Blight, their job had been a grim one, and had he not been so distracted, Alistair would have been pleased to see them receive a moment of respite.  

Alistair and Eamon arrived at the cluster just as the larger combatant tumbled backwards onto the ground and lost his sword. The smaller fighter, a slight woman in leathers and helm, leapt forward with double daggers flashing. She landed gracefully to straddled the fallen man, the tips of her silver blades a mere hair from his throat.

"I yield!" the large soldier exclaimed.  

The crowd erupted in cheers, and friendly hands reached out to help both victor and vanquished to their feet. A few final congratulations were offered and then, without much ceremony at all, the guards went back to work, leaving the champion alone with Alistair and Eamon.

"Eamon!" the girl cried and jaunted towards the men. Her oiled armour was a rich mahogany tone, intricately patterned and masterfully made.  With a causal grace, she pulled off her helmet to reveal a thick mane of cascading red. Her eyes sparkled a brilliant green as she smiled at Eamon.    

"Ah," the Arl beamed. "Lady Elissa Cousland, allow me to introduce you to Alistair Theirin, our soon-to-be King." Eamon all but shoved the pair together.

The girl's eyes widened for a moment before she hastily crossed her arms before her to bow. "Your Majesty, it is a great honour to meet you."

"Ahh, I'm not a monarch yet.  Easy on the 'Majesty' stuff," Alistair stammered.   "So, it's just 'Alistair' for now, please."

Elissa flashed him a dazzling smile. "Of course, Alistair."

An awkward silence fell as the girl continued to beam. "That was some, um, nice fighting there," Alistair tried.

"Oh, that was nothing - just a little sparring." Her mood suddenly fell. "My father used to teach me. He was a true master before ... "

Alistair shuffled his feet in the dirt as he rubbed at the back of his neck. "Ah, right, Howe ...I'm sorry ... for bringing it up ... and such," he stumbled, suddenly feeling very guilty about the whole thing.

The girl shook her head, sending her long, fiery tresses into delicate ripples. With an elegant sniff, she blinked back the tears that threatened to fall. "No, Alistair, it is truly fine." Elissa straightened to the posture of a noble. "I am grateful to you and the Warden for avenging my family. My parents' souls may rest peacefully in the Maker's embrace now." She paused for a moment. "In fact, I would like to extend my gratitude to the Warden herself."

"Hm, well... that is," Alistair stumbled. Although a great many had requested to see Solona, only her companions and Wynne's students had been granted access. They still had not worked out a story to explain Solona's unending sleep without revealing that she should, in fact, be dead by the Taint's hand. And, of course, there was that _other_ matter to consider; even Eamon had not been told of the Warden's pregnancy.  

The Orlesian Wardens' arrival had only made matters worse. They had marched into the tattered city a few days ago, and had immediately demanded to know why his lover was still alive. It was a strange affair: they seemed almost angry that Solona was still breathing. For once, Alistair was glad he was ignorant; lying to his brothers was not something he would relish. When their inquires proved fruitless, the Orlesians had then demanded that their healer examine Solona, despite Wynne's outright refusal. Some rather tense moments had passed when Leliana drew her bow outside Solona's door, and in Alistair's best attempt to understand Orlesian, had told the foreign Wardens where to go, and how to get there.

And so, the Orlesian Wardens were forced to settle with the same story that had been passed to the public. Yes, Solona was alive. Yes, she was the greatest hero in all the land. No, she was not taking visitors at this time.

Alistair gave Lady Cousland a sheepish shrug. "Solona's still pretty banged-up from the battle.  She's still not up to seeing guests yet ..."

Elissa gave a sweet gasp, "Oh, I'm so sorry. There are so many rumours about the Warden, I've no idea what to believe. Please send my best wishes for her recovery."

"Yes. Of course, thank you," Alistair stammered; the girl's heavy gaze was beginning to unnerve him.

Eamon took the lull as opportunity to steer the conversation away from Solona. "You know, Lady Cousland almost became a Warden herself."

The girl blushed and gave a slight laugh. "It seems so very long ago. The Warden Duncan came to my family's estate last spring. He wanted to recruit me, but my father refused, and that was the end of that." Elissa turned wistful for a moment. "And then, when Howe ..." she trailed off. "I tried to follow Duncan to Ostagar, but I was too late."

Alistair and Eamon gave a solemn nod of understanding.

With a sigh and an absent twirl of her silver blades, Elissa continued. "I spent months looking for any sign of my brother Fergus, but with no home and no allies, I ended up hiding away in a small village in Highever."

Eamon scoffed. "You hardly hid, my dear," he smiled. Turning to Alistair, he said, "Lady Cousland freed the village from bandits and then single-handily kept the North Roads safe for refugees."

Again, all Alistair could do was nod. "That was, umm, very brave of you," he stumbled.

The girl gave a songbird's laugh. "It was nothing compared to your adventures with the Warden, I'm sure," she smiled. "I just tossed about some bandits. And then, when I heard the Blight was over and Howe destroyed, I came to Denerim to reclaim my family's title."

"But now, Lady Cousland intends to stay in Denerim indefinitely, isn't that right, my dear?" Eamon asked.

"Yes, it is. With Fergus alive, well and returning to Highever, I've no real plans now," Elissa gave a slight shrug.

Alistair shuffled his feet once more, letting the others' words wash past him. After so many days of darkspawn and archdemons and comas and lovechildren, idle chit chat seemed so strange now. Why was Eamon drawing this out? Their talks together usually consisted solely of lectures of duty and politics. There were hundreds of soldiers about, why bother with this one girl?

"... don't you think so, your Majesty - I mean, Alistair?" Lady Cousland asked.

"Oh? What? Sorry, I didn't catch that..." Alistair apologized, snapping back to the conversation.   

Eamon gave Alistair a sharp glare. "Lady Cousland was just pointing out what a beautiful day it is."

Alistair looked up into the sky to hide his bemusement. Really? The weather? He sighed, yes indeed, only a few fluffy white clouds dotted the horizon, leaving the sun to shine bright and strong, high above them. With a deepening frown, Alistair realized it was now past noon; he should have been back to Solona nearly an hour ago.

"Um, yes," he nodded. "Very nice. Very sun...ish. Not much cloud...ish...ness, either," Alistair fumbled.

The girl grinned. "Yes, it's very sunnish, indeed."

With a silent sigh, Alistair gave Elissa a slight bow, and tried very hard to be polite. "Lady Cousland, it was a pleasure to meet you, but I have to go... do kingly stuff."

"Yes, of course. Please excuse me for keeping you," Elissa bowed once more. "I do hope we will meet again."

With that, Alistair about-faced back towards Solona's chambers, with Eamon chasing at his heels. As Alistair rounded a bend into the Royal apartments, Eamon reached out to grasp his shoulder.

"Slow down there, my boy."

"I really need to get back to Solona."

Eamon gave his shoulder a slight squeeze. "Just take a moment with me first, Alistair. I think the lady can wait a minute or two longer."

Alistair nodded, embarrassed. "Yes. You're right, of course."

There was a quiet moment while the Arl gathered his words. "So," he began at last. "What did you think of Lady Cousland?"

Alistair crossed his brows. That was not the sort of question he had been expecting. "I ... she's a fine young lady," Alistair admitted.

"Yes, she is," Eamon nodded. "And the daughter of Teryn Bryce Cousland - a very respected and well loved, Teryn." He paused for a moment, gauging his nephew's reaction. "And she's very talented in her own rights - an accomplished duelist; an avid historian; fluent in Orlesian, Anders and Antivan; a local hero ... I think she plays the harp too..."

Alistair laughed. "Settle down, Eamon. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were trying to sell me something."

Eamon's gaze fell, as a glimmer of guilt flickered across his eyes.

With a choke, Alistair's jaw fell open. "Maker's breath, Eamon, you _are_ trying to sell me something."

The Arl sighed. "You must consider the stability of the throne, Alistair. You will need an heir very shortly."

Alistair sputtered as he rubbed his forehead in disbelief. "Maker's Breath, Eamon. She's a _child._ "

"Elissa is older than she looks," Eamon countered. "She will be seventeen before summer's end."

Alistair sighed. "That's still much too young, Eamon."

The two men held each other in long stares. They had ended up in a small courtyard within the Royal chambers. Thick blades of green grass curled up to their ankles, somehow untouched by the recent invasions.

Alistair scanned the skies above, grateful for this privacy. "You know," he gave a cold laugh. "I was actually worried that you would try to start that whole Celene thing with me."

Again, Eamon's eyes held guilt. "I did not believe that now would be the best time to include additional outside influences." He paused for a moment, evaluating his nephew's response. "But, if you would be open to considering - "

"No." Alistair interrupted. "Absolutely not. We're done with this." He turned back towards the inner chambers.

"It can't be Solona," Eamon shouted after him.  "You _know_ this."

Alistair dug in his heels, grinding himself to a halt. That was it. He was tired of this. Tired of all this nonsense, when there was really only one answer to it all.

Alistair spun about and marched back to Eamon. When he reached him, Alistair bent down to look the older man in the eyes. Perhaps for a moment, he recognized the equal fatigue within him, but Alistair did not let that stop him.

"It _has_ to be Solona," he hissed. "She's pregnant. She holds the heir you want so badly." With that, he strode on to Solona's chambers, determined that nothing would stop him now.

Eamon blinked for only the barest moment before regaining his composure. "You're certain?" he called, chasing after him. "You're certain it's yours?"

Alistair forced his hands to his sides, for fear of strangling his uncle. "I'm going to pretend that you did not just ask that."

"But the elf was clearly interested -"

"No."

"And the Blood Mage at Redcliffe was an old friend -"

"NO."

"And there is rumour about another Templar at the Circle -"

"NO!" Alistair grabbed the Arl by the shoulders and shook him. "Stop this," he hissed. "Before I do something we both regret."

"I..." Eamon stammered. "Yes, I see." He nodded. "I will arrange for Solona to be transported to Redcliffe. Quietly. I will see to her and the child's comfort myself." He paused. "Away from Denerim."

Alistair trembled, not believing his own ears. "And then what?" he seethed. "Raise him like your own until Isolde gets jealous? And then ship him off to rot in the Chantry?" He gave his uncle one last shove before stalking away.

* * *

 

Solona ran, stumbled, fell, and then ran once more. A legion of demons bit at her heels, offering her paradise.

 _Demons lie!_ _Demons always lie!_ She screamed to herself, clenching the tiny bundle close to her chest. _Run. Fly._

If only she had wings.

* * *

 

Alistair threw open the doors of Solona's chamber with enough force to rattle one off its hinges. With a grimace, he shook off Wynne's scolding for the intrusion and marched to the one woman he believed could hold off his mounting tide of dilemmas.

"Leliana."

Her song interrupted, Leliana summoned her Chantry grace to stop from scowling. "Yes, Alistair? What can I do for you?"

"Leliana, I..." Alistair swallowed hard. "You know that the Revered Mother in Lothering was killed during the Blight, yes?"

Leliana nodded slowly. "Yes. Revered Mother Irina." She stood, settling her lute gently upon her chair. "She stayed to care for the refugees. It was a great tragedy - she was such a kind and gentle soul..."

Alistair bit back a reminder of how ... _kind_... the Revered Mother had been when Solona had demanded Sten's freedom. "Yes, well," he stammered, wondering if he was half mad. "I need you to lie for me - for Solona."

The bard glared at him. "What?" she demanded.

"IneedyoutosweartheReveredMothermarriedus," Alistair spewed in a single breath. He inhaled deeply and tried to ignore the looks of shock he received. "In Lothering. In secret. With you as the only witness." His chin dropped against his chest like a shamed child.

Leliana stepped cautiously towards Alistair, her jaw dropped low and her brows cinched in consternation. "You want me to lie about the last days of a Holy Mother? You want me to lie about sacred vows taken before the Maker himself?"

"I...well...yes," Alistair stammered. "For Solona," he added.

She turned to Wynne. "He's gone mad."

Wynne shook her head. "Alistair, I've warned you about running yourself ragged," she sighed. "You need to get some rest away from here. Watching Solona sleep all day won't do anyone any good."

"No Wynne, it's..." Alistair paused to kneel down next to Solona, and take her pale hand into his. She was so small, so fragile, and he was losing her. "Eamon wants to send her away," he said. "He wants hide her and our child away in Redcliffe and marry me off to some nobleman's daughter."

"You're king," Leliana spat. "Stop him."

"It's more than that," he answered, voice small. "I can't have a bastard."

"So now you worry about propriety?"

"What? No," Alistair swore. He ran his thumb against the palm of Solona's hand. It was cold and lifeless. Had it really been so long since she held his back?

"If anything happens to me, I want her and the child to be taken care of," he sighed. "I want them to have rights and respect. I want them to know that I loved them." He stood up, brushed the dust from this clothing and then turned back towards the women. "I won't let my son suffer a bastard's life of shame and desertion."

It was only a small stitch in the tapestry of Alistair's hopes and fears, but one little pull upon it would unravel them all.

"And I can't lose her again..."

Leliana marched to stand a hair's width away from Alistair. Fury and fire sprouted from her as she shouted to him. "Now? Now you want her? After everything you've been through and everything you've said and done and _hurt_ ... now you want her?"

"Yes." It was not simple and it was not pretty. "Yes."

A long silence filled the chamber. Leliana turned to storm from the room, but stopped just short of the old oak door. She raked her fingers across her brow and let loose a string of Orlesian curses that no Chantry sister should know.

"Fine," she said at last. Whirling about on the hard stone floor, she pointed a harsh finger at Alistair. "But if you do this, you do it in truth. Before the Maker's sight and in Andraste's eternal glory. You will not abandon _ma soeur_ again."

"A _moritisk vindalle_..." Wynne whispered, forgotten by the pair.

Alistair shook his head. "I'm sorry. A what now?"

Leliana scoffed.  "You are most certainly the worst Templar in the Chantry."

"Ah...I was only an Apprentice... and Templar's don't really do weddings, just ... you know ...stabbity and whatnot." Alistair clarified. "But, ah, yes, go on."

Wynne came to stand before Alistair. With a mother's touch, she placed a hand upon his shoulder. "It is an ancient and tragic ritual," she lamented. "When a young lover falls into her deathbed, she and beloved may make a _moritisk vindalle -_ a Deathbed vow. It is, in essence, an appeal to Andraste's mercy; by showing their devotion to one another, they pray that Our Lady Redeemer will bless their union and cure the ill. If not, well, the girl and her beloved are bound together in the eyes of the Maker, so that when they both have passed on, they may be together forever at the Maker's side." Wynne paused at Alistair's confusion. "If the girl is too weak to respond, her guardian may make the vows for her. To the Chantry, the vow is as strong as any other marriage."

Alistair stepped back. "So you're saying that fathers can marry off their dying daughters to whomever they like? And that's it? They're stuck together for all eternity?"

" _Oui_ ," Leliana spat. "And if you want me to lie for you, you'll do it, and you'll - "

"Okay. I'll do it," Alistair interrupted, raising his hands in surrender.  "Whatever you want. Whatever you need. For Solona. I'll do it."

* * *

 

This was it. This was the end of Solona Amell. She had died in the Thedas and now she would die once more in the Fade.

Solona had run from the demons for what might have been hour or eons. Over grey hill and grey dale, she had run for all her worth, but her little piece of the Fade was no different from those she had visited in the past: it was an island with nothing but cold mist at all sides. At some point she had become rash and foolish and backed herself onto a cliff. With the army of demons upon her and trapped upon a narrow plank, she had nowhere else to run.

 _Give us the child,_ a demon spoke without sound. _Give it to us. You can go free. Back beyond the Veil._

"There's no going back," Solona spat.

_We will show you the way._

Oh Maker, could they actually do it - send her back to the Thedas? Back to Alistair? Who knew how long she had actually been dead in the mortal world? If it had only been a little while, then her body might still be...

No. Demons lie. Demons _always_ lie. Anyways, it did not matter. She would not - could not - give a babe over to the demons.

"No!" Solona shouted back to them. "Leave us alone or I'll destroy you all!"

_You cannot. Foolish mortal. You are one. We are the Fade. You cannot win. Give us the child._

With an echoing cry, Solona summoned forth another sheet of white lightening. It was enough to scatter the first row into ash, but not enough to stop the demons' advance. They slithered on towards her with a mad determination. She called down rains of fire and ice, but they too were insignificant against the dark throng of demons.   And so Solona fought until she reached exhaustion and then she continued far beyond it. She could not carry on much longer. She would lose and the demons would tear her apart and take the child anyways.

Behind Solona the edge of the cliff loomed. Cold wind gusted up her spine, inviting her down into the foggy depths. She swallowed down the rising bile in her throat. Perhaps it would be better for everyone if she just jumped ...

A raven's cry turned her gaze upwards. High above the demons, a bird speared through the mists of the Fade towards Solona. She risked another glance up - even from such a distance, the bird seems oddly ... _familiar._ The raven dove into the ground between Solona and the demons, and then vanished into a oily black cloud of smoke. Both mage and demons paused to stare as the smoke writhed into the shape of a certain witch.

Morrigan took but a moment to regain her senses before letting loose a piecing shriek at the oncoming horde. With a sharp cut of her hands, a thick wall of ice rose up to shield the pair. For now.

"Why have you not risen yet?" she demanded, grabbing Solona by the forearm and shaking her. "Why are you not searching for Flemeth?"

"Morrigan?" Solona gasped in disbelief. Realization quickly followed. “Maker, you died too..."

The witch's brows drew together in a moment of confusion. "Bloody hell!" she spat. "Fool! You've no idea ...“ Morrigan rubbed at her temple for a moment.

A muffled screech and the cracking of ice startled them both.

"You must wake up, Solona!" she shouted.

Solona frowned. Poor Morrigan, she had no idea she was dead. "Morrigan, there's no waking up.” She shook her head. "We died."

Another crack skittered across the ice wall. The dark figures behind it scratched and scrabbled at it until finally a demon punctured a small hole and grasped blindly through it.

The mages jumped back to the very tip of the cliff. With a cry of frustration, Morrigan slapped Solona hard across the creek and then seized her by the shoulders.  

"I need you. Wake up," she hissed, and pushed Solona over the edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Up next: Chapter 8 - The Lies, coming soon.


	8. The Lies

In the late afternoon light of Solona's chamber, Alistair smiled faintly as he played with the white ribbon tied around his wrist.  He should have taken it off days ago - as soon as their little sham of a ceremony had finished. Instead, like a sentimental fool, he kept the ribbon hidden beneath the sleeves of his ever-increasing wardrobe. He knew he would have to remove it soon, lest the delicate fabric become ruined with wear, but for now, he allowed himself the indulgence of keeping some connection to Solona, his now, almost sort-of, wife.

There had been some question of whether Leliana, a mere lay sister, was even qualified to perform a _moritisk vindalle_. But it had never truly been about the legitimacy of the rite, only Alistair's willingness to go through with it. In exchange for his eternal oaths to Andraste and the Maker, Leliana would lie for him: she would swear, when the time was right, that he and Solona had been married by the Revered Mother of Lothering a year ago.  

Leliana had glared at him throughout the ceremony, daring him to renege - to stumble or balk as the oaths became more and more demanding. Yet he did not. Alistair had said all the vows - of eternal loyalty, fidelity and love, and he had meant every word of it. He would remain loyal to Solona through this life and beyond. Should she succumb before him, he would remain alone and yearning until he joined her at the Maker's side. He would know no other woman.

Wynne, as Solona's default guardian, had only to vouch to Solona's loyalty to Alistair.

And then the white ribbon that had bound Solona's hand to his during the vows was cut into two, leaving a band upon each of their wrists. Only he, Leliana and Wynne would ever know ... and her dog ... and probably, somehow, Zevran.  Alistair was fairly certain Eamon would abandon him - wash his hands of Alistair and leave Denerim - if he ever found out. He admonished himself; he had to be more careful. A deathbed wedding was rare enough, but even one observant Chanter could spoil their carefully hidden plans.

Although it was not a typical part of a _moritisk vindalle_ , Alistair had slipped a ring onto Solona's finger anyways. He had had it for months now, a secret impulse purchase from the Dalish craftsman in the Brecilian Forest. It was a simple ironbark band, carved into a twisting braid, with absolutely no magical properties. He had intended to get the ring enchanted before he gave it to her; he had even spoken to Bodahn about what materials Sandal would require to place some warding rune upon it. But then, the Landsmeet had come and Alistair had buried the ring deep within his satchel, wanting to forget it, but unable to bring himself to throw it away.

Back, a thousand or so lifetimes ago before they marched to the Landsmeet, everything had been much clearer to Alistair. Together, he and Solona would rally the forces of Ferelden, defeat the Archdemon, and then live happily together as Grey Wardens. The would travel the Thedas hand-in-hand, righting the world's wrongs. Now, Alistair found his vision of the future changed by the day, if not the hour.

The sun's light dipped beneath the windowsill, reminding Alistair of the rapidly passing hours. He had dallied here too long. With a sigh, he stood.

"Happy Three Day Anniversary, love," he said, kissing his sleeping lover lightly upon her forehead.  

Ready to return to the constant drain of politics and planning, Alistair reached for the door, and then froze as he heard a gasp. Spinning back around, he watched in disbelief as Solona shot upright in the bed.

Her eyes tore open. Unfocussed, they darted madly about, her pupils like pin pricks.

"Solona," he said, reaching his hand towards her. She looked at Alistair. She looked _through_ Alistair.

She shrieked, doubling-over as her hands flew to clutch blindly at her head. Magic pulsed from her, colliding into a chaotic spell, bursting down from the ceiling and into her like a hammer striking a nail.

The force of the spell sent Alistair flying to his back upon the floor. As he scrambled back to his feet, Solona groaned and rocked upon the bed, her hands still grasping at her head. The air grew thick with magic; a taste of burnt copper filled the room. As her magic surged and seethed, clouds began to form and a gusting wind swirled around them. Electricity crackled as brilliant white sparks formed and died. The furniture began to shake.

Before he could stop himself, Alistair cleansed the room of magics, dissipating the clouds back into the aether. Without lyrium, his wards would normally be too weak for her, but now, with Solona frantic, weak and confused, his feeble skills were enough to block her.

He once vowed to never use his Templar training upon Solona; he hoped she would forgive him.

Alistair dove onto the bed, subduing Solona's arms back to her sides before she managed to rip out her own hair. For a woman a month abed, she fought him well. She thrashed wildly in his embrace, scrambling madly to free herself.

"Calm down, love," Alistair urged, his breath against her matted hair. "It's me - it's Alistair. You're safe now."

With a clatter, Wynne and Petra burst into the room.

Wynne gave a quick survey of the room, wasting no time. "Petra!" she commanded the girl with a nod.

Hesitant but obedient, Petra raised her hands, a faint green glow coiling about them. Within moments, Solona went limp in Alistair's arms.

"Sol..?," Alistair said, tapping at her cheek. When it was clear she would not be waking, he turned back over his shoulder to Wynne.

"What are you doing?!" he shouted.  "She just bloody woke up."

Wynne ignored him, instead issuing hasty instructions to her apprentice. "Go," she ordered Petra. "Just like we discussed - and make sure the way is clear."

The girl nodded silently before scurrying off.

Only then did Wynne acknowledge Alistair's frantic questions. "She's out of the Fade," she explained. "Get up - we have to move her now, before she wakes up again."

Alistair sat dumb in the silent room, not understanding.

Wynne huffed in exasperation. "We can save, Alistair. We can save them both."  

* * *

 

Consciousness drifted to Solona in slow stages.  Drowsily lifting an eyelid, she blinked into the soft light a few times become letting her eyes slide back closed. It was night, she thought. Candlelight flickered across stone walls as cool air brushed against her cheek. The soft patter of footsteps paced back and forth nearby.

She forced her eyes open once more. They stung as the air scratched like sand against them. She blinked a few times, willing moisture to build and relieve the dry ache. As she waited for her vision to adjust, Solona gave a small sigh. For all that she had just awoken, she was tired. So very, very tired.

Her sight finally came to focus, allowing her to spot the source of the footsteps: Alistair. He looked strange to her. His usual armor was gone and replaced with a fine linen shirt and trousers; his sword was missing. The stubble on his chin seemed thicker than she could remember. His brow was in a constant crease, and bags hung heavy beneath his eyes. He looked as tired as she felt.

With fuzzy thoughts, Solona wondered why he was not abed with her at this late hour.

"Alistair," she whispered, calling him back to her.

Alistair paused, turning back to look at her. He stared hard and hopeful for a moment, before scrambling towards her. And then, in an awkward stumble, he was beside her, crouched down at the edge of the bed. The candlelight caught in his hair, glowing bright and golden as a halo about him. He beamed down at her, eyes shining.

"Hello, my love. How are you feeling?" he asked.

In truth, she had never felt so exhausted in her life. She tried to raise a hand to touch his cheek. It puzzled her, but she found she _needed_ to touch him - ensure that he was real. Her hand shook as she raised it a few inches from the bed. Her wrist felt impossibly heavy, her arms impossibly weak. She let it fall back among the soft covers.

A dull ache began at the top of her head and washed down to the tip of her toes. Sparks of a sharper pain struck now and then behind her eyes. Her chest was heavy and her limbs weak. Her throat was unbearably dry as she tried to speak again.

"I ... hurt," she summarized.

Alistair gave a sad smile. "I know, love." He stroked a stray lock of hair back from her brow. "You've been through a lot."

What exactly had she been through? Solona wondered. She could not even recall how or when she had arrived in this room. She struggled to focus. She must have overexerted herself something awful to be this dazed.   She winced as a jagged shutter of pain erupted across her forehead. There was something - something very, very important that she should remember, yet she could not clear her mind long enough to recall it.

It was then that she noticed the moisture pooling at the corner of her lover's eyes. For all that he smiled down at her, there were tears in Alistair's eyes.  

"You're crying," she breathed.

Solona rallied her strength and lifted her hand up to cup at his cheek. Her hand still quivering, she smoothed her thumb beneath his eye, wiping away the bright liquid that gathered there. Alistair's hand rose to cover her own and hold it against his cheek. She watched, silent, as he blinked back his tears.

"I love you, Sol," he said, clutching tighter at her hand against his cheek. "You need to remember that - no matter what happens - I love you more than you could possibly know."

Solona tried her best to smile back at him. She did not know why he was doting upon her so, but she was enjoying this tenderness. "I love you too," she promised, voice quiet but true.

And then his lips were upon hers, firm and urgent - insistent, desperate, but without the usual hunger. She felt his fingers slide into her hair; his other hand still clutched tight on her own. She felt the moisture of his cheeks press damp against hers. She felt dizzy from it, ready to fall into the endless pit of dreams or love or something else. She let herself become lost in the heady moment until another bolt of burning pain raked sharp claws through her mind. She pulled away, scrunching closed her eyes and moaning softly in her suffering.

"Here," said Alistair, producing a small red bottle from a forgotten side table. "Wynne left this for you - it should help with the pain."

With one arm beneath her shoulders and the other lifting the small bottle to her lips, he helped her drink down the red concoction.

The warm liquid was thick and bitter against her tongue. It tasted different from any potion of Wynne's she consumed before.

A few moments later, the taste was forgotten as a cloudy haze drifted into her mind. If it had been difficult to focus before, now it was surely impossible. Both the sharp, jagged pains that tore through her head and the general nagging soreness in her limbs seemed to float off far away from Solona. She could feel Sleep's call.

"Tired..." she mumbled, her eyes falling closed.

His lips pressed soft against her forehead.

"Just rest now, my love."

* * *

Alistair watched as his lover settled back into a deep and dreamless sleep. Wynne had promised ten hours or more of oblivion from the red potion. It would be late into the evening before his lover awoke.

Wynne had been cautious in her explanations. She had convinced Alistair to keep the news of their union and, most importantly the child, away from Solona. She had warned of shock and anger and all the thousands of confused emotions Solona would undoubtedly harbour upon her awakening. They removed her wedding ring and ribbon. He had been told that Solona may behave irrationally and desperate as her lyrium withdrawal progressed; he would see the very worst of his lover before she was cured.

Yet, seeing Solona awake and hearing her promise of love had revitalized Alistair. He could do this - he could have happiness after all. He had helped end a Blight and save the whole damn Thedas, surely he could figure out how to keep his lover and their child at his side.

He smiled as Solona turned to curl up onto her aside, still fast asleep. This was how she usually slept, not the unmoving death posture upon her back that she had held these last weeks. Alistair resisted the urge to join her bed - wrap himself about her as they used to.

No, he had work to do. With Solona pregnant, their remaining obstacles stemmed from magic and nobility. They were substantial ones, but surely not impassable. Standing, Alistair smoothed the blankets around Solona once more. Then, with a final kiss upon her forehead, he turned and departed the dark cavern of the palace dungeons, leaping up the stairs two at a time.

With an energy he had not felt in months, he threw open the doors to the office Eamon had claimed. The doors clattered upon their hinges, shaking dust into the beams of the midmorning sunlight.

The arl looked up from the mass of papers scattered about his desk. Around him, a handful of harried pages quickly smothered their shock.

"Alistair - " the arl began, surprised.

Alistair managed to smile.

"Let's plan that coronation."

* * *

 

The third time Solona awoke, she did so with some clarity. As her eyes opened into the quiet, candlelit room, she found that she remembered. She remember everything - well... _mostly_ everything. She remembered the Landsmeet and the broken, stabbing pain that echoed in her heart after Alistair's crushing rejection. She remembered the burning scent of Denerim and the oily black smoke that curled up from it. She remembered the Archdemon's screeching wails as she plunged Alistair's sword into its neck. Most importantly, she remembered that she should be dead - but yet, as the tight pain in her chest attested, she was still very much alive.

She scrunched tight her eyes once more, trying to clear the remaining fog. She had some broken memories of the Fade - fleeting grey flashes of demons and light. But like most dreams, the memories were quick to scatter.

Solona felt tired and weak even now. She supposed it was to be expected, having outrun Death itself. She was uncertain if she could find the strength to rise from the bed. She frowned. Besides, where would she go? 

She shivered, burying herself deep within the silken sheets. The linens were unusually fine, and the bed softer than she had ever known. Even the grand lodgings Eamon had offered in both Denerim and Redcliffe paled to the comfort Solona now leisured in.

With the covers pulled up to her nose, she peaked out into the dark room. Where was she? The walls climbed high above her in towering stone. In the darkness, she could spot no windows.

A miscellany of fine tapestries were hung upon the walls, punctuation with the occasional painting, too distant in the dim room for Solona to see clearly. A bookcase stood a few steps from the bed, brimming with unfamiliar tomes. A plain but serviceable desk stood against a wall and a scattering of unmatched chairs littered the rest of the room. A thick blue curtain shuddered gently against the far wall, presumably hiding a door. In a corner, an ornate screen had been set-up, behind which she guessed was a chamber pot.

Yet it all seemed strange, like nothing quite fit together as it should.  

With a deep breath, Solona began to summon her Wisp; if nothing else, it would offer some extra light in the dim room. When it did not appear, she swallowed hard and tried again, only to be met once more with failure. Solona's breath became short in panic. This was an easy spell - a simple one taught to junior apprentices before they managed to tie their own shoes. She tried again to summon even the faintest spark of light to her fingertips. Nothing.

Panic took hold of her. She grasped madly for any trace of the Veil and found none. The air tasted hollow here and a scent of stale ice wafted about her. She choked. It felt like the Tower basement where she had once triumphantly smashed Jowan's phylactery upon the aging stones. Fade-lock. She was in a Fade-locked room.

It was then that she truly noticed her surroundings. This was not some innocuous guest quarter with poorly matched decor. The stone of the walls was jagged and unfinished. There was no light from the windows because there _were no windows_. Along the bottom of an adjacent wall she spotted a small and ugly drainage grate, secured firm with thick iron bars.   The floor had been covered in a beautifully patterned rug, but around its edges, traces of stained concrete glared back at Solona.

It was a cell - a carefully disguised cell - but a cell, nonetheless.

She was trapped in another tower.

Solona shuddered, trying to reason who could have locked her here. Templars were the obvious answer. It had to be Templars. They must have hunted her down after she slew the Archdemon and drug her back to a Circle. Or maybe it was some ally of Howe or Loghain, intent upon exacting revenge. Cauthrien? Should have stabbed the bitch...

But then why the lavish furnishing? Why go through the effort and expense of ensuring her comfort?

Solona drew a few deep breaths for strength. Either way - _any way_ \- it did not matter: she had to get out. Trembling in cold and panic, she pushed back the covers. She wore a fine white night-rail, its long length offering little protection against the chilled air. She tried not to think about who had dressed her in it.

She made a few stumbling steps towards the curtain before her legs gave way, and she landed gracelessly upon the floor, the fall knocking away what little breath she had. The room spun and tilted about her. Shivering, Solona collapsed from her hands and knees down to curl upon the floor. Through the fine fabric of the carpet, she felt the cold ache of the stone floor creep into her and drag her down. Her vision split and faded, shuttering in and out of blackness. She would surely pass out again soon, and then, if no one came to check, she would die of hypothermia upon the carpet she was coming to detest. It was far from the escape she had hoped.

Far off, she heard the clattering of iron and the dull swish of fabric. Her name echoed out to her. Harried footsteps followed.

The black void of her vision cleared just long enough for Solona to see a familiar figure sprinting towards her: Alistair, her knight, her fool lover who broke her heart in two. Thank the Maker, he had come to save her.

She breathed a weak sigh of relief as he lifted her into his arms ... and deposited her back into the same bed.

He spoke to her, endless sounds that made no sense through the fog of her mind. A blanket was wrapped around her, and calloused hands ran fast up and down her arms. She shivered through it.

When a bottle was brought to her lips, she drank from it, too stunned to protest. It was sweet with a gentle effervescence: a standard rejuvenation tonic. Within a few minutes, the horizon stilled once more. Solona's vision began to clear and random sounds gave way to words. She saw Alistair peering down to her, speaking soft words of affection, while his hands stroked gently at her hair.  

It should have been a comfort, but Solona's returning strength brought a renewed panic. Why was she still in the cell? Why hadn't Alistair helped her to freedom?   How had he waltzed so easily through the iron door? Where were the guards?

Realization struck at her like cold lightning to her heart. She gasped and stiffened in his arms.

"Shh, my love, it's alright," Alistair murmured to deaf ears, rocking her gently in his embrace.

" _You_..." Solona choked, trying to pull away, " _You_ put me in a dungeon?!"

Alistair stilled his rocking. Whatever he had been expecting from her, it was certainly not that accusation. His hold upon her loosened, and Solona slid back fully onto the bed.

Solona watched him in silence. His Adam's apple dipped low as he swallowed. His eyes blinked down and then back to her. Solona knew her lover well enough to recognize the guilt painted across his features.

Her fear turned to anger.

"Why am I here?" she bit.

He reached for her. "Sol-"

"Why am I here?" she asked again, voice low and cold.

It was then that Wynne and Leliana appeared, a quick scuffle of footsteps from beyond the drapery heralding their arrival. Solona lurched towards the sound in time to see the pair step through. She managed the briefest glimpse beyond the shroud before it settled: behind it, a wrought iron cell door was quickly closed by two guards. The long, torch-lit passage beyond ended into a dark armored door.

As soon as she cleared the curtain, Leliana rushed to Solona, pushing Alistair aside. Leaping onto the bed, she wrapped her arms tight around Solona and pressed a kiss upon her cheek.

"Oh, _mon petit chou_ , I have worried so for you," she said.

Solona still glared hard at Alistair, Leliana's words lost to her.

As always, Wynne was much more reserved. "Ah, my dear, you're looking much better," she said, standing a respectful distance from the bed.

Solona gaped at them. Did they fail to notice that they were in a dungeon?

"Get me out of here," she begged them.

Both women frowned and looked away. In their silence, the roar of the candles' flames grew deafening.

"What the hell is going on?" Solona exclaimed, exasperation thick in her voice.

"We ... cannot," Leliana lamented at last.

Her three companions looked back and forth to one another, waiting for someone else to explain.

Solona swallowed, trying to be reasonable through her confusion and fatigue.

"Is the Blight over?" she asked finally, teeth ground tight together.  

The three seemed to sigh in relief at Solona's distraction.

Alistair gave an encouraging smile. "Yes, love, you did it. You killed the Archdemon. The Blight is over." His hand came up to cup her cheek. "You're the great 'Hero of Ferelden' now."

She pulled from his touch, frowning. With the Archdemon dead, and she still alive, it only led to more questions.

"Everyone else .. ?" she asked, trailing off in fear of the worst.

Leliana smiled. "Everyone is fine, _ma cherie_ ," she promised.

"Morrigan?" Solona asked, suddenly irrationally hopeful.

Alistair shook his head. "Not since Redcliffe."

Solona nodded cautiously. "And we are in ... Fort Draken...?," she guessed.

"No, love, the palace."

Her throat felt dry. "Tower?" she whispered.

Alistair bit a his lip. "... basement," he answered. _Dungeon,_ he meant.

Solona drew a deep breath, counting to ten. When she finished and found was no more satisfied with their answers than before, she spoke again. "So then, will someone kindly tell me what in burning Andraste's name is going on?" she spat a little louder than intended.

Wynne stepped forward, crossing her arms before. "This is an intervention, Solona," she explained in her very best authoritarian voice.   "You have become too dependent upon the lyrium and now you must purge it from your system."

Solona glanced about the room. So, that explained the Fade-locked cell. What it failed to illuminate was why her so-called companions thought it reasonable to force this upon her. Wynne had always nagged on about the lyrium, so she was unsurprising. Perhaps his newly acquired status had gone to Alistair's head, letting him believe that could order her about. Solona shot him a scowl.

That left only one.

"Leliana?" she questioned.

The bard would not meet her gaze, remaining silent in her shame.

"Okay, okay," Solona admitted, raising her hands in defeat. "I get it - I'll cut back on the lyrium, alright? Please, just help me out of here."

No one moved to aid her.

"This is absurd," Solona muttered, pushing back the blankets once more. She managed to get both feet onto the ground and halfway to standing before Alistair lifted her once again and placed her back into the center of the bed. With a scoff and a glare, she tried again, only to have him repeat the process, this time not releasing her. Too stunned and too weak to fight, she let him draw her head down to cradle against his chest. His nose pressed into her hair as his hand rubbed comforting circles in the small of her back.

"Please, Sol, just stop it. Please, don't make this hard," he sighed.

She pushed once more at his shoulders until he released her.

Solona glanced back and forth between her so-called companions. "I am _not_ staying down here," she said, a hard punctuation on each word. "You cannot force this upon me. You cannot keep me here."

Wynne sighed. "I'm afraid you must, my dear. At the rate you consume, the lyrium _will_ kill you."

Solona gave a cold laugh. "The Taint will have me in a few years anyways."

Her words scratched at Alistair's heart. Clearing his throat, he asked, "Could you give us a second?" Leliana looked ready to object, but Wynne pulled hard at her arm

"We'll be just outside," the enchanter promised, pulling Leliana firmly behind her.

With the details of the duration and nature of her confinement becoming clear to Solona, the terror of being so powerless - so _helpless -_ crashed in upon her. She could be trapped down here for weeks.

"Please, don't take my magic," she whispered, the hot burn in the corner of her eyes threatening tears.

Before she could protest, Alistair's arms were back around her.

"Just a few weeks resting here," he promised. "Please, love, just a few, quiet, relaxing weeks." He gestured at the bookshelves. "You'll have books and visitors and anything you want," he promised. His lips pressed soft against her temple. "I can spend each night with you," he murmured in promise. "I'll make love to you in a feather bed." He worked his way along her hairline, kissing around her ear and down the back of her neck. "The days will fly by.   Just a few weeks to get the lyrium out of your system, and then..." he trailed off.   "And then," he began again, pausing and drawing a deep breath. "And then, we can be together."

The words struck cold upon her. Solona ducked from his embrace. "Be together?" she hissed, shaking once more. "Be together?!" The tears that once threatened were dried with fury. "I begged to stay at your side," she spat. "I begged to stand back and watch you marry another and raise her child and you swore even that was impossible."

"I was wrong," he whispered with shame. "Forgive me, Sol. I was wrong. "

"You gave up the crown...?" she tried vainly to rationalize it.

Alistair shook his head. "I can't."

"Anora?"

"Dead," he replied. "She convinced her guard to flee when the Archdemon arrived. The darkspawn never even made it to the palace. If she had just stayed in the damn tower..." He pulled back from his digression. "I love you, Sol. Maker's breath, I love you. We _can_ be together, I promise. Just you and me."

His words cut at her. Oh, how she had longed for those words. To Solona, it had been just days since she had begged him to say those words - to _mean_ those words. To swear of love and vow to fight tooth and nail that they might be together.

And now, as he leaned towards her, they sounded hollow and vile.

She turned away from his kiss.

"Get out."

* * *

Alistair faltered. He had known that news of her confinement would not play well with Solona, but, against all past evidence, he hoped that she might come to accept it.

"Get. Out." she spat again.

Alistair could find no words. She had begged, cried, and shouted at him. But he loved her. Oh Maker, how he loved her.

"Wynne! Leliana!" she shouted. "Get him out of here." She gave him a hard stare. "I want him gone."

The curtain drew back as the pair of women returned. Leliana practically ran, stopping just short of the bed, waiting impatiently for him to leave.

As he stood, Alistair tried once more. "Please Solona," he tried.

"Go be king," she screeched back at him. "Go find a fucking wife."

At the bars, Alistair paused to look back at the woman he loved. She was furious. She hated him more now than ever. But - his gaze fell lower - she was going to have his child. This was the right thing to do, for everyone's well-being.

It was too soon to judge anything. Solona had just been through hell and back, only to awaken imprisoned by those she loved and trusted; she was allowed to be mad.

Alistair breathed one last "I love you" before closing the gate behind him.

Things would get better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, something brand new! I have these grand plans for this story that keep getting pushed back with set-up. Hopefully one day, in 2019 or so, we'll actually get to the main plot... 
> 
> My horrific writing pace is further complicated by the release of new DA games and books and so on. I planned this story out in 2009 before even DA: Awakenings. Every time a new game comes out, there are some elements (and characters!) that I really want to incorporate into my story and some things that will completely contradict my plans. For example, I was going to use the Origins epilogue with Cullen going crazy and killing a bunch of Apprentices ... but now he's the lovey-dovey charming Commander in Inquisition.
> 
> Likewise, Solona's parentage was going to be a huge part of my story, but now I find that I really want to incorporate the Hawkes, which of course will mess that up that entire arc. As a reader, would it bother you if I pick and choose what I want from the later games? Or should I go "all or nothing" with them? 
> 
> Thanks for reading and reviewing!


	9. The Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solona and Alistair argue , Eamon and Alistair discuss the future, and Solona and Alistair argue some more.

Things did not get better.

A week passed and Solona gave no sign of forgiving Alistair. If anything, she grew more spiteful by the hour, stewing day and night in the dark dungeon shadows.  

For all that Solona remained struck in the void of the Fade-locked cell, the rest of the world continued to spin on without her. The rebuilding of Denerim trudged on at a maddenly slow pace. Refugees left their broken homes in the capital to seek a better life away from the carnage in the countryside. Meanwhile, even more refugees flooded back into the city, claiming there was no such refuge to be found. At least trade was quick to resume, as caravans and ships began to fill the ravaged warehouses.  

The coronation came and went without much incident. With the nobility anxious to return to their homes, Eamon had managed to rush the proceedings along with remarkable efficiently. For his part, Alistair had dressed in the ridiculous attire that Eamon selected for him without any snide comments. He had smiled and waved and graciously acknowledged the throngs of nobles that would have shunned him as a bastard only a few months ago.

On a day where he stood before hundreds of loyal Fereldans, Alistair had never felt more alone. Reciting his oaths to Maker and Ferelden, he had scanned the crowd, hoping against all odds or reason that Solona might be there, smiling proudly back at him.

Instead, Solona had spent the coronation retching into a bucket.

Her withdrawal symptoms had arrived with a vengeance. First, the headaches worsened. Then came the dizziness, restlessness, pounding heart, nausea, tremors, and now, depression. To add to her wretchedness, without her usual web of magic to keep her just _precisely_ comfortable, Solona was constantly chilled in the dank dungeon air.  

She was cold, miserable, and refused to see him.

In a bout of stir-crazy ambition, Solona had attempted a repeat performance of their escape from Fort Draken. Moaning and thrashing about on the floor, she had managed to lure the guards into her cell, before bolting out past the curtains and through the open iron gate. She had made it all the way down the darkened corridor before discovering that the heavy wooden door that blocked the exit was barred from the other side.

The guards were supposed to be more or less just for show - someone to make sure Solona was, relatively, well at all hours, and to keep the public (and Zevran) out. Officially, they were men of the Royal Guard: the King's own personal bodyguards, chosen for loyalty and discretion. They did not question why the Hero of Ferelden was being locked away.

As Solona had beat upon the hard oak door, begging for release, desperate for so much as a taste of lyrium or even just to feel the slightest brush of the Veil, an overzealous guard had sped after her down the corridor and tackled her to the floor.

She was fine - Wynne had made sure of that before the incident had even been reported to Alistair - but a little bruised. Without magic, that left only healing potions to mend her- healing potions without the usual pinch of lyrium. They worked, just not very well. Solona now sported a blackened eye and a renewed fury.

But time carried on. Alistair trotted down the stone steps and into the cold bowels of the palace's dungeons. Wynne had reported that Solona was faring reasonable well that day - so well, in fact, that she might be receptive to a visit.  

To his disappointment, Alistair arrived to find that Leliana had beaten him to it; the guard had already been dismissed back beyond the wooden door. Balancing a crate of gifts at his side, Alistair tread quietly down the empty corridor to wait just beyond the iron grate, hiding in the shadows of the heavy curtains that concealed it from both sides.

A soft, steady scratching sound filtered through to him: Leliana was fussing over his lover's hair yet again.

"Revered Mother Dorothea has asked me to lead an expedition to the Urn of Sacred Ashes," he heard Leliana say.

Alistair raised his brow in surprise. That explained a few things - the Chantry envoy, the bard's guilty looks.

"The Chantry is worried that the Ashes will be pillaged now that they have been found," she lamented. "But of course, I have declined. They left this morning. I could not leave you, _ma chérie_."

There was a heavy silence.

"You should go," Solona said eventually.

"I could not. You need me here."

There was a scoff. "I need you? You won't help me now. What good are you supposed to be?"

Alistair cringed. Wynne had warned that this ordeal could bring out some of his lover's uglier traits. Spite seemed to be the current forerunner.

"I see," Leliana hummed. The curtains did nothing to filter her sorrowful tone. "If that is how you feel, perhaps I will go after them."

There was a faint shuffling as Leliana rose to depart. By the patter of her footsteps, she made it nearly to the curtain before Solona stopped her.

"Wait, Leliana," she called after her friend. She sighed. "While I slept, you sang to me. You braided my hair, told me stories," she said. "I'm not sure how I know that, but it helped." She cleared her throat. "In the Fade, somehow, it helped. Thank you."

There was a pause as Solona sniffed. "I'm sorry. I keep saying awful things. I'm not myself," she apologized, suddenly sounding on the verge of tears. "You've been a good friend. Forgive me."

Alistair heard the rustle of fabric, signally what he could only assume to be their embrace.

"Of course, _ma chérie._ I understand. All is forgiven," Leliana promised. "When I return, you will be free of this place. We will travel the Maker's Thedas as free women together."

Alistair winced at the sound of a kiss. A simple peck on the cheek, he told himself. Surely.

They spoke a while longer, until Leliana was forced to depart if she had any hope of catching up with the envoy. She showed no surprise when she drew back the curtains and found him standing there.

"You will be good to her," Leliana warned as she passed.

Alistair gave a dumb nod in reply. Of course he would - if she would let him.

He waited for Leliana to tread down the long corridor and out through the wooden door. Then, with a deep breath, and a forced smile, Alistair pushed back the curtains and entered Solona's cell.

His lover sat up in her bed, her back against the padded headboard. She looked wretched; her pale skin was stretched tight against hollowed cheeks. The plum and yellow ring about her left eye was kept company by the dark bags beneath her right. Her hair, although freshly brushed and braided, sagged limp and lifeless against her brow.

She wore at least two layers of heavy robes that he could see. A brilliant red scarf encircled her neck, looking out of place against her ashen skin. Her fingers, gloved in brown doeskin, adjusted the massive stack of blankets covering her lower half. Alistair frowned. The air was cool, but certainly not as icy as her dress suggested; it seemed they could add 'chills' to her long list of symptoms.

"How are you feeling today, my love?" he asked.

She sniffed delicately, flipping the page of the book that lay across her lap.

Ah, it was to be the silent treatment again today. Solona had quickly learned that shouting at him got her nothing but exhausted. Now she either slung insults or ignored him until he left.

Alistair settled the crate onto her desk. "Some more letters for you," he began, drawing out the tight-bound stack of papers and placing it on her nightstand. It was but a small sampling of the considerable amount of correspondence that Solona received each day. Most were letters of gratitude from common folk, thanking her for saving their family or their farm or their cat. There were a few official commendations and congratulations from nobility across the Thedas for ending the Blight. There was also an ever increasing number of pleas for aid or offers of employment. Alistair took the liberty of filtering those out for now.  

Solona's gaze did not lift from her book.

"I've brought gifts," he tried instead.

She turned a page.

"Fresh oranges," he said, trying to entice her as he pulled a small sack from the crate. "Or at least, fresh from the dock this morning - and fresh from a tree in Antiva a month or so ago... probably."

At her indifference, he tried presenting a few more items: a couple books on Tevinter scrounged from the palace's holdings, a silken dressing gown, and yet another bouquet of fresh flowers. None garnered any attention.

"And..." He held up the final package - the coup de grace - wrapped carefully in deep burgundy velvet. Peeling back the cloth, he revealed her sword, the Spellweaver _._

"I had to bribe your dog to hunt it down," Alistair admitted. "Took him all of ten minutes once he could be bothered - in a gutter just outside Fort Drakon. Lucky for us none of the scrap traders had found it yet."

He caught the flicker in her eye as she glanced quickly to her sword. She had loved that damn sword from the moment she pried it from the dead hands of a cultist. They sold almost all of their spoils to Bodahn, but the Spellweaver she insisted upon keeping. On a quiet evening, they had once passed it around camp; all save the three magi expressed extreme distaste for it. Wynne and Morrigan were indifferent, but Solona treasured it. She claimed that the hum the others felt was a sweet song to her.  

She loved the sword almost as much as Alistair hated it. The enchanted blade made his hand itch and arm ache to even hold it through the velvet; perhaps it sensed his disdain. As a blade, it was too fine and delicate looking to possibly be of any use. He was always certain the damn thing would bend or even shatter against a strong blow from a real weapon. But she loved it, so he had had it found after its long fall from atop Fort Draken. He then hired the only Knight-Enchanter in Denerim to inspect and polish the blade, before laying it to rest in a new sheath.

Holding up the shining blade, it suddenly occurred to Alistair that he was rather an idiot; leaving a sharp, pointing object with Solona right now was likely a horrible idea.

"It will, ah, be waiting in your rooms when you're better," he amended.

He rewrapped the sword, and placed it carefully back into the crate. Then, he sat down at the chair next to her bed and began peeling an orange. Her silence did not dissuade him; Alistair had become strangely accustomed to her stonewalling.

"I want to see Zevran," she suddenly spoke.

Alistair snorted. "Not happening." 

"I know he's still in Denerim."

In a unanimous decision (at least by himself, Wynne and Leliana), Zevran had been banned from seeing Solona. Unlike his new sort-of wife, the three were well aware of the elf's affection for her; they had no doubt he would either smuggle her lyrium or even break her out of the cell at her first request.

"Still, not happening," Alistair remarked dryly, holding out a segment of the orange for her.

She wrinkled her nose at it, turning away.

Alistair glanced over to the small table where a dinner tray sat untouched. It had become a constant struggle to convince Solona to eat. Aside from the fact that after many weeks of nothing but broths, her stomach was no longer used to solid foods, the lyrium withdraw left her in an unending bout of nausea. What food she did manage was, more often than not, quickly retched into the bucket at her bedside.

They had tried any number of foods to tempt her into eating, all of which failed. From fancy, finicky, court cuisine, to the horrible gruel they served each morning in the Circle, Solona refused them all. Ironically, trapped in a dungeon, the only food she had requested was stale, dried-out, bread.

He lifted the fruit nearer. "Just try a piece, Sol."

She shifted further away from the food. "Why are you even here?" she asked, shaking her head.

"Ah, well, they say sunlight is bad for your complexion, so I figured if I'm going to stay so damn pretty, a few hours each day out of the light ..." he trailed off at her responded obscenity. "Right. No jokes. Humour-free zone," he lamented.

He placed the orange upon the bedside table, next to the forgotten pile of letters.

A new tactic then. "Believe it or not, my dear, I'm rather desperately in love with you."

She scoffed, pulling the mass of blankets tighter about her.

"It's true, my love," he continued. "And, as shocking as this may be, I don't like the thought of you being alone and miserable down here."

"Then let me out," she answered as though it was the most obvious solution in all the Thedas.

He shook his head. "Can't."

"Then go away." She placed the book aside, and turning on her side away from him, slid beneath the sea of blankets.

"Won't," he shrugged.

Settling back into the chair, Alistair stretched out his legs before him. "So, Bann Franderel threw a fit in court this morning ..." he began relaying his rather unexceptional day to her. It seemed only fair that if Alistair was forced to live it, she could at least suffer through the abridged version. "... and Lady Asbethe sent this _awful_ painting of your dog for you. I mean, it's hideous, Sol. And then I had to thank her and compliment the thing and kingly-gesture this and kingly-gesture that. Ha, I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing - you should have seen the look Eamon gave me. I mean, Oghren could paint a better portrait of your dog. _Your dog_ could paint a better a portrait of your dog. And, ..." he trailed off.

Before him, the blankets trembled.  

Alistair stood to look over Solona's shoulder. She was curled into a small ball beneath the covers, shivering steadily in the tight grip of a chill. She had removed her gloves and now scrubbed at her hands to regain some warmth.

When the chattering of her teeth reached him, Alistair came to a quick decision he knew he would likely later regret. Dropping back down to the chair, he pulled off his boots, and shrugged out of his coat.

Before Solona could protest, he lifted the edge of blankets and slid into the bed behind her. Snaking an arm beneath her neck, he wrapped his other over her shoulders, and pull her back tight against his chest.

She elbowed him, hissing insults.

"Look, for all that I'm a big useless idiot who tramples poor little mages' hearts, I'm a big, _warm_ useless idiot." He rubbed her cold hands between his own.

She stilled, as if debating for a moment, and then finally settled into his embrace.

"This doesn't mean anything," she said, voice muffled in the soft folds of the blankets.

"Sure, my dear," he sighed against her hair. "Whatever you say."

Breathing in the scent of her, it did not take long for the memories to come flooding back. As his eyes fell closed, Alistair found it all too easy to pretend that they were back in Redcliffe.   He remembered how he had snuck into Solona's chambers the night after they had returned triumphant with the Sacred Ashes. With Eamon awake in the next room, they had made hushed, joyful love and then collapsed asleep in each other's arms.

After a few minutes, Alistair stifled a groan as the front of his pants grew tight. Surprisingly, he did not feel half so ashamed as he would have anticipated. He missed his lover. Desperately. That hardly made him a bad person. It had been months since they last ... fraternized, and now that he finally held her once more, the rush of longing was suddenly overwhelming.

Carefully, as to not disturb her, he shifted his hips back and away from Solona. With a deep breath, he tried to think of something else. Cold baths. Oghren. That mabari painting. Porridge. The Grad Cleric.

Alistair held Solona long after her teeth stopped chattering, and her shivering subsided. Eventually, he felt her relax and even drift into sleep. She dozed for nearly an hour, and then, for the briefest moment before she fully awoke, she turned in his arms and nuzzled against his chest. It felt like heaven.

Too soon, she came to her senses and pushed him away. This time, he gave in to her demands that he leave, but he did so with a half-hidden smile. The memory of that short moment when she pulled him nearer and sighed against his chest could sustain him for days.

* * *

The next morning brought new trials.

Alistair closed his eyes for a moment and drew in a deep, careful breath. He had thought long and hard about this all night, Solona's words echoing in his sleep.

"Look," he began. "I know you want to see Solona, and I know, that you know, that she's been asking for you. I know you love her, and I know we will never see eye-to-eye in spite of that."

Bathed in the white morning light that streamed into his office, Alistair tried his best to look Kingly and Decisive and Definitely-Not-Making-This-Up-As-He-Went.

His audience remained incredulous.

He swallowed hard. "She doesn't want to see me," he admitted at last. "Leliana is gone, and Wynne can't spend all day with her. She'll be lonely." He drew a deep breath, not believing he was saying this.

Before him, Solona's mabari, Daro, scratched impatiently at his ear.

"Maker's breath," Alistair lamented. "I can't believe I'm trying to reason with a blasted dog..."

"Look," he tried again. "Solona is pregnant; she's having a puppy - a baby, Blessed Maker, I mean, a baby," Alistair stumbled, his palm against his forehead. "And the lyrium will hurt them both. So you have to swear that if I let you see her, you will not fetch her lyrium and you will not help her escape."

The dog glared silently back at him.

"She might beg you - plead with you," Alistair explained. "But you must not give in. Please, for her sake, if you love her, you can't give in."

The dog gave him a long stare in contemplation. Alistair began to wonder if this was a mistake; the mabari was too clever for its own good.

Finally, the dog gave a single bark of acceptance.

"And..." Alistair braced himself for what would surely be the deal-breaker. "You'll have to bathe before you go.  Thoroughly. You smell awful."

Daro growled.

"Nope - no arguing. That's the deal," asserted Alistair. "You can either go find the Hounds Master for a bath right now, or you can keep feeling sorry for yourself."

The mabari whined all the way to the kennel.

* * *

The rest of the day passed in a dull blur.   Alistair spent the remainder of the morning sitting in court, listening to nobles bicker about petty slights. He took lunch with Eamon and some Nevarran ambassador whose name he had already forgotten, and then, wasted away the remainder of the afternoon in private meetings with various officials. He tried. He really did. But today, like too many other days, his heart was not in it. He found himself quick to tire of the squabbles. They had just ended a Blight - could everyone not get along for ten minutes and just rebuild the damn country?

The smear of the day came to a sudden halt in the Royal Offices as Alistair found himself staring at his own signature.

_Alistair Theirin_

He had finished signing a dozen documents, and yet now, the words gave him pause; it still looked strange to see it written. For twenty years, he had been "Alistair" or "just Alistair", "Squire Alistair", "Warden Alistair" or "that bastard, Alistair". He'd never had a surname before, and now, all too suddenly, that surname had become a defining part of himself.

His contemplations and self-pity were disrupted as Eamon pulled the vellum away. Quickly adding his own signature as Witness, he then passed the document to a waiting page, to be spirited off to some circle or another of bureaucratic hell.

With that, Eamon dismissed the remaining pages, leaving only himself and Alistair in the room.

"Hmm, we've finished a bit early today," the Arl observed. "Perhaps we could spare a few minutes to discuss the matter of the landholdings?"

Alistair shrugged. Why not? It sounded just as thrilling as the rest of the matters of state he had sat through today.

"There are a number of titles and landholdings left vacant by the Blight," Eamon began. "Some, like Amaranthine, we will need to fill immediately. Others, Denerim and the such, can wait." He passed Alistair a short list.

Alistair tried not to cringe at the mention of Denerim, remembering how Zevran had twisted his knife into Vaughan Kendells' gut. Even now, he was surprised that Solona had allowed it. Perhaps it was his training with the Crows or maybe just his deference for sparing his life, but Zevran made few requests of them during the Blight. When he asked to kill Kendells, filthy and simpering in his own dungeons, Solona had assented without a second thought - no trial, no evidence, just the wretched testimony of the half-starved elf two cells over. Kendells could have been another voice of support at the Landsmeet; instead, he bled-out slowly in his cell, writhing in a smear of filth.

"Why not Denerim?" Alistair asked, offhand.

"The Arling of Denerim is all title and no responsibility," Eamon gibed. "The Crown manages most of the capital, and it has no bannorn to oversee. It was once a grand teyrnir in Calenhad's day - now its responsibilities are so diminished even fools like the Kendells could manage it."

With a nod, Alistair stared at the list of holdings - a handful of bannorns, the two arlings and, of course, the teyrnir of Gwaren, remained opened.

"I don't know. What if you took Gwaren, Teagan got Redcliffe and we made Ser Perth the Bann of Rainesfere?"

Eamon laughed. "I admire your initiative, my boy, but it takes a bit more political manoeuvring than that. All of those can wait a little while - only Amaranthine is in dire straits."

Rubbing at his brow, Alistair tried to recall the various communique that had passed across his desk on the northern arling. Peculiarly, Vigil's Keep was still reporting darkspawn skirmishes, even after the Blight. Since sending the Orlesian Wardens north, the reports had slowed but not stopped.

The growing stack of correspondence from the arling also suggested the bannorn was divided and bickering following Howe's death. Rendon Howe apparently still had some living heirs, but his actions were more than enough to tarnish the entire family name. Whoever was awarded the arling would have to quell the darkspawn, stand strong against the bannorn and, of course, be deserving of the spoils of such a rich holding.

"I want to give Amaranthine to the Wardens," he concluded.

The Arl blinked for a moment. "We can look into that, certainly," he conceded. "I can compile a list of suggestions for the remaining titles for a later date."

Alistair held back his surprise at how quickly Eamon had accepted his suggestion; he had expected at least a little resistance. Perhaps the Arl saw it as a way to create some distance between himself and Solona.

"And how is the Warden Amell today?" asked Eamon, deepening Alistair's suspicions.

Alistair frowned, suddenly feeling quite guilty. "I haven't been to see her today," he admitted.

"I do wish you would tell me why exactly she is down there," the Arl lamented. "If news of it were to spread, it could be ... poorly interpreted."

"Oh, ah, secret Warden things - you know how it is," Alistair lied.

"I see. And do many 'secret Warden things' involve locking one of their own in a dungeon?"

Alistair shrugged. "Only the ones that kill Archdemons."  He rubbed at his brow.   "She'll be out soon," he explained. "Another week at most."

"And have you thought about what will come after?"

"Oh, she'll probably burn down the palace, incite a mage revolt, summon a legion of demons and overthrow Orlais - the usual." He gave a wistful sigh. "Maybe if we make her dog the Teyrn of Gwaren now, she'll spare us her wraith later. Two birds, one stone - that sort of thing."

Ignoring his sovereign's jests, the Arl rose to stand by the wide windows. The evening sun was just disappearing below Denerim's fractured skyline, casting long golden rays into the chamber.

"I have spoken with Teagan," he began. "He was quite _taken_ with the Warden after the events at Redcliffe."

Alistair suppressed a groan.   More of this? Truly?

"He has offered to marry the Warden," Eamon continued. "He would claim the child as his own." He turned back to Alistair. "You've said you want to grant mages more freedoms. She would be Lady of Rainesfere, and maybe someday, Redcliffe. It would be a good steppingstone." He tried to rationalize it.  

Before he could stop himself, Alistair broke down into laughter. "Ha, Eamon, I'm sorry," he snorted. "But this gets more ridiculous each time. And now you're dragging poor Teagan into it? What's next? Are you going to get her appointed Archon and ship her off to Tevinter? Maybe marry her off to the Arishok in Seheron?" He shook his head. "I'll tell you what Eamon, it's her choice in the end, right?"

The Arl nodded.

"You think you can convince Solona to get married and be shipped off to Rainesfere, _and_ not have any of your vital bits burned off? Go for it."

A knock at the door interrupted their discussion.

At their summons, a guardsman entered the office. He marched into the centre of the room and bowed low to Alistair. From his seat at the desk, Alistair recognized him as one of the Royal Guard tasked with watching Solona. Sergeant Carvin? Carven? Cardrin?

"Beg pardon, your Majesty," the guard apologized.

Alistair waved off the formality. "Go on."

The guard gave a cautious glance to Eamon. "There is a, uhh, incident downstairs, sire, and the Senior Enchanter has gone into the city. We haven't been able to locate her yet."

Alistair shot to his feet and was halfway to the door before he remembered Eamon. He called a hasty apology back to the arl, before speeding down towards the dungeons. He leapt down the jagged stone steps two and three at a time, the guardsman right behind him.

Once they wound their way to the heavy wooden door and beyond, the guard began to explain. "She's trying to escape, your Majesty. And doing a rather bullocks job of it."

When they arrived at the end of the corridor, a second guard bowed to Alistair, and then reached out to lift the outer curtain.

Before them, Solona sat collapsed against the iron bars of the gate, her knees drawn up to her chest. In the cool dungeon air, she wore only a thin shift; her feet were bare. A sheen of cold sweat covered her as she sobbed silently into her forearms.

"Solona!" Alistair dropped to kneel upon the hard stone. He reached through the bars to grab her arm, forcing her attention. She turned for a moment to look at him, her lips a pale blue. Dropping her head back to her arms, she began to sobbed with twice the vigour.

"She's been trying to pick the lock for maybe an hour now, sire. We thought she'd give up -nowhere to go really."

It seemed Solona was well into the final stages of the withdrawal: panic, desperation, and irrationality.

"Burning Andraste," Alistair swore, as the guard fumbled with the keys. "Why didn't you do anything?!" he shouted at them now.

"Beg pardon, your Majesty. We were told not to touch her unless she made it out past the curtain. We did send for the Enchanter."

Alistair cursed. "Both of you, go find Wynne," he ordered, jumping back to his feet.

"Your Majesty?"

"GO!" he shouted, wrenching open the door.

A makeshift wire pick fell from the lock as he pulled at the iron bars. Absently, he kicked it far down the darkened corridor as he stooped to lift Solona into his arms. To his shock, she reached for him.

As he carried her back to the bed, she held tight to him, crying into the crook of his neck. She trembled. Shivered. Sobbed. When he placed her upon the bed, she would not release him, forcing Alistair to kneel at the bedside. Through the mess of limbs, he managed to grab a blanket and wrap it haphazardly around her.

Solona took no notice, pleading and rambling incoherently against him. Her hands clutched at his collar, drawing him nearer.

At a loss, Alistair held her close and whispered words of love against her temple.

Her tears streamed from red eyes down ashen cheeks. "Let me go," she sobbed. She begged. "Just let me go."

And he almost did. He would have done nearly anything to stop her tears, to end her suffering. Alistair shook his head. "I'm sorry," he whispered, rocking her. "I'm so sorry."

"I'll disappear. I'll leave Ferelden. You'll never hear from me again, I swear," Solona pleaded.   "You don't need to keep me here. I'm just trouble."

She turned to stare up at him, and Alistair crumbled into the soft grey of her eyes.

His heart broke. "I can't."

 Solona panted with shaking breaths.  "What right do you have to keep me here?" she sobbed. "I'm a Grey Warden. I don't answer to kings."

At his silence, she carried on.  "I'm the Warden-Commander, right?" she began to shout against his chest.  She reached to push feebly at his shoulders.  "Warden, I command you let me go." 

"Solona, I..." Alistair paused.  She was right.  He had absolutely no right to keep her locked up.  He was breaking both his own and Ferelden's oaths to the Wardens by denying her.

"Why?!" she demanded suddenly. "Why are you doing this?"

"The lyrium is - "

"You love me?" she interrupted.

"Yes. Maker, yes."

"Then how can you let me suffer?"

Alistair opened his mouth, but no words came. He was staggered. They had persisted with lies to no avail. There was really nothing left but the truth.

And the truth was hard.

"Solona," he tried to smile. A thousand miles and another lifetime away, this would have been joyous news. "You're pregnant." The words felt thick and sticky within his throat.

At once, Solona's small form stopped shaking. Alistair cringed as he felt her steel herself.

"What?"

He forced a wider smile, "We're going to have a child."

Alistair had never truly been sold on the notion of hiding her pregnancy. Surely Solona of all people would be rational enough to not try to harm herself or the child.

A thick silence filled the dungeon. Alistair had feared this moment since Wynne had first struck him across the cheek a fortnight ago. Of course, he had hoped that he would tell her after she had recovered from her addiction, preferably in a moonlit garden or held close to one another in a soft bed. He would hold his beloved close, kiss her and tell her how he had taken care of everything - that they could live happily ever after together.

Alistair stroked at her cheek. "That's why you're here - that's why you have to stop the lyrium - for the child. And for yourself."

"Liar," she whispered.

Fumbling with the buttons of his cuff, he pulled up one sleeve to reveal the white ribbon tied there. Before he could stop himself, the entirety of the truth came rushing out from Alistair. He told Solona of Eamon's scheme to send her and the child away, and his own acts of desperation to keep them at his side. He revealed his conspiracy with Leliana and her demands that he undertake the rite at her bedside.

While he spoke, he removed the ribbon from his wrist, and grasping her hand, tied it around her own. When the band was secured, he brushed a kiss against her pulse.

He swallowed. "It's true, love. I swear." His throat caught at the words. "Have you heard of a _mortalisk vindalae_?" He spoke with caution.

Solona jaw dropped. "No." She shook her head in disbelief, her eyes wide in shock.   "You could not..."

"I swear, Sol, I won't let Eamon or the Chantry or anyone else take our child from us. We'll be together - they can take us all or they can throw me off the blasted throne. Either way, I won't lose you again," he vowed.

Solona stared back at him, brow furled and lips slightly parted, seemingly lost for words. Glancing down to the ribbon around her wrist, and then back to him, she opened her mouth as if to speak.

As he waited for some sort of reaction, Alistair reached into his pocket and drew out the ironbark band. Already kneeling at her bedside, he held the ring up to her.

" 'We stay together, no matter what happens', right?" his voice was hopeful as he echoed her old words back to her.

Her face darkened in anger. She shoved his hand away, her rage a sudden cure for her panic.

"You ... _bastard_." She spat the word, knowing well it would stab cruelest at his heart. "I begged to stay with you. I grovelled before you."

Alistair flinched. "Sol, I-"

"A fecund womb and suddenly I'm worthy?" she threw at him.

"It's not like that."  

"It is _exactly_ like that," she cried. "You swore love eternal and then cast me aside as soon as you needed an heir. And now, now that I'm...breeding -" they both cringed at the word - "you love me again?"

He shook his head. It was all falling apart so much faster than he planned. "I never stopped loving you."

She looked as though she would resume crying or begin scream or throttle him. Likely all three.

"I'm sorry, Sol. I've been a fool. I've hurt you. I'm so sorry," he chanted, begging that she might listen. "But we can be together," he vowed.

In answer, she ripped the ribbon from her thin wrist, and clutched it tight in the palm of one hand. It took Alistair a moment to recognize the hard glare in her eyes as she stared at her fist, teeth clenched and hands shaking: she was trying to summon the Veil.

"Burning Andraste, stop it. It's Fade-locked down here - you know that."  He reached out to grab her hand.  "You're going to hurt yourself."

She pulled back, tearing her fist out of his reach.  Her nails dug into her palm as she wailed in frustration.  

And then, somehow, impossibly, smoke.

Ugly, oily, black smoke began to curl up from the ends of the ribbon. An acrid, bitter smell filled the room. Alistair's teeth itched at it.  

Panting, she sneered triumphant and exhausted back at him. Blood began to drip red and angry from her nose, trailing down past her parted lips. With a sniff, she dropped the ribbon, letting it fall as though forgotten and worthless over the side of the bed and onto the floor.

Far down the corridor, Alistair heard the wooden door creak open, followed by Wynne's quick shuffle of footsteps.

 "Leave," Solona ordered with a hard stare, eyes unforgiving. "Go away. Never return."

Defeated, he picked up the blacked ribbon, and then left without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And yet again, this chapter had to be split in two. The upside: Chapter 10 is 80% written. The downside: we still haven't gotten to the main bloody huge plot point. Oh well - next time, definitely.... probably.


	10. The Climb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solona leaves the dungeons.

**Chapter 10 - The Climb**

Solona tapped her fingers against the polished wood of the table, impatient as ever in the dungeon's unending gloom. Although she yet still remained in her cell, she knew her freedom was impending.  

It had been six days since her pitiful attempt at lock-picking, five since she had come through the worst of the lyrium withdrawal. Through it, Wynne had not left her side. It had likely cost the Senior Enchanter a few of her precious remaining years, but she had stayed with Solona, day and night, in the bitter dungeon air.

At the height of it, Wynne had held her head upon her lap, stroking her hair, and pressing a damp cloth against her forehead - like the mother Solona never had. Her body trembling and heart racing, Solona had wondered if she would succumb to it. She had feared that she would die in the darkness, never to drench herself in sweet sunlight or wrap herself in the wind's embrace. For all that she was the great hero of the Blight, she would wither and rot, forgotten by all those outside the stone walls.

And then, like a fever breaking, she had come through it. The trembling had ceased and the agony dulled. For the first time in months, she no longer felt like she _needed_ the lyrium to breathe. Oh, she still wanted it - _staggeringly, achingly so_ \- but she now felt as though she could somehow manage to live in a world without it.

The last few days had been more about recovery than cleansing. Solona's strength and sanity had slowly returned, and with it had come the ennui. Trapped together by choice and by force, Wynne and Solona had little to pass the time. They read and bickered and reminisced about the Circle. In five days, they managed to drive each other mad, make amends, and then chase one another back to towards madness once more.

Wynne had broached the subject of the child exactly once, and then, at Solona's silence, never mentioned it again.

In the final few days, Daro had been allowed to visit. Solona had openly wept as her mabari trotted into the cell, her tears staining his fur as she threatened to crush him in her embrace. Had the hound known that she had lied when they last spoke? Could he comprehend that she had meant to abandon him and rush towards her death? If so, he held no grudges, happily barking and licking her face.

Having her mabari once more at her side had eased Solona's recovery. Daro came and went a half-dozen times each day, bringing a little joy to the dismal prison.

And then, while Solona last slept, with no explanation at all, both Wynne and Daro had vanished, and a vial of lyrium had appeared upon the table.

Her tapping fingers paused as she found herself staring longingly at the blue vial. Her mouth went dry; her throat ached for it. It was a test, Solona was certain. A horrible, stupid test, probably devised by the old hag to torment her.

Solona shook the thought from her head. _No_. That wasn't fair. Wynne had done what she thought best; she had tried to help. She had done what had been needed to save her - Solona's stomach turned - to save them _both_.

She looked back at the little blue bottle. She was certain if she could ignore the vial, she would be free of the cell within the day. It called to her, offering relief from the strains that crushed down upon her. It promised to drape Solona in the sweet embrace of the Veil and guide her back to her magic once more. It vowed to cure the ache that clutched at her heart whenever she thought of Alistair. And yet, she ignored it. She wanted the vial, but she wanted freedom more. She _would_ be free of this prison.

At least Alistair had had the good sense to stay away. Solona wondered if before her confinement, they had been apart for more than a day since meeting just a over a year ago. It seemed unlikely. She did not think she could stand to see him again. He broke her heart - tore her up inside and then wondered at the gaping hole stabbed through her. Her fool lover had shattered too much this time; they were beyond repair.

And the child? Solona swallowed at the tightness in her throat before drawing in a deep breath of the stale prison air. The child brought a thousand new complications to her life.

Her hands ran absently over her lower abdomen, before dropping pointedly to her sides. She refused to think of the child.

Time passed with a maddening slowness. Solona stood to pace the room. It had been hours since she awoke. At some point, a guard had arrived with a tray of food that she had no interest in eating. She was restless, bored, and more than a little cross. She tried reading one of the horrible books scrounged up for her, but soon lost interest. She then tried sleeping some more, but found that too eluded her; she was sick to death of books, naps, and lukewarm baths. Giving up on sleep, she remade the bed with the infuriating precision the Circle had once demand. Then, she paced more. Read more. Cursed the lot of them some more.

In the end, she settled for staring dejectedly at the damned blue curtain.

Perched upon a chair with her knees drawn up her chin, she waited. Eventually, her head began to droop. Perhaps she even dozed.

It was hours later when a creak from the battered wooden door echoed down the corridor. Solona jumped to her feet, her breaths coming short and her heart beating faster.

The iron gate groaned as the guard heaved it open. With a faint whisper, the inner curtain was pulled back, and Wynne stepped through.

 _She looks old_ , Solona thought, startling herself with the notion. She realized that this was the first time since awakening from her coma that she had truly regarded Wynne. Now, without the veils of lyrium nor delirium, Solona could see how worn and weathered her mentor had become. The Senior Enchanter walked as though carrying a heavy burden upon her shoulders.  

Yet, Wynne smiled to see the seal upon the blue bottle remained intact. "I'm proud of you, my dear," she said with a little nod.

Uncertain of what she was meant to do, Solona nodded back, biting at her lip. At Wynne's gesture, she sat upon the edge of the bed.

Wynne stood over the girl, examining the colour of her eyes, the tone of her skin. Pressing her hand against the girl's forehead, and then down her neck, she nodded at her even temperature. She gave a final nod, and then sat upon the bed next to Solona.

"I have worried that we did wrong by you, my dear," Wynne admitted into the silence. "I've seen a dozen mages fight with lyrium - some even lost - but none were as far gone as you." She shook her head. "Perhaps we should have waited for you to decide. Perhaps your suffering wasn't worth the risk. Perhaps we were doing more harm than good." She shifted on her seat. "But you are stronger than that. You've come through it unscathed." Her gaze was earnest and true. "I'm so proud of you, Solona." She put a hand upon her shoulder. "And I know Irving would be too."

Solona tried not to flinch at the mention of the First Enchanter.  She wanted to be angry.  She  _deserved_ to be angry.  They had almost killed her with their impulsive decision. She wanted to rant and scream that they had made her suffer in both body and soul. And the very gall of Wynne to bring up Irving...

Instead she wrapped her arms tight around the older woman.  "Thank you, Wynne."

The sound of the old wooden door groaning open once more scattered down the hall. A few moments later, Alistair strode into the cell, smiling wide at the lyrium bottle still intact upon the table. He walked over to the pair, nodding at Wynne, and then leaned down as though to kiss Solona upon her forehead.

She ducked out of his reach. "What are you doing here?"  The words were cold upon her lips.

 Alistair frowned.  "You’re leaving today. I'm here to take you to your rooms."

"I'll find my own way."  

He failed to recoil at her harsh tone. "Be that as it may, my love, as you have noted so many times, we are, in fact, in a dungeon," he gestured about the room with a sigh. "There's about forty steps up to the ground level and then another forty more up to your rooms."

Wynne held up her hands, silencing them both. "I'm much too old to listen to you two bicker. I'm going. You can figure this out yourselves." With that and a promise to check-in upon Solona that evening, she departed.

Once Wynne had disappeared beyond the curtains, Alistair held out his hand to Solona. "Shall we go, my love?"

Solona scoffed. A month abed in the coma may have drained her, and perhaps the slow laps she had walked about her cell were not as restorative as she would have liked, but if Wynne could make it up the stairs, she certainly could too. Ignoring his objections, Solona shouldered past Alistair, trudged through the open gate, down the long corridor, and out through the cursed wooden door.

For some reason she had expected the air beyond the door to be sweeter as she drank it in. She tried not to scowl as she founded it tasted just as stale. At least, to her mild satisfaction, the guard beyond the door had the decency to look sheepish as he pointed the way to the winding staircase and out of the dungeons.

She came to a halt at the stairs. Cold and grey, they wound up and around, disappearing from her sight. Solona stretched back her shoulders and quickly shook the stiffness from her neck. She could do this. She spent her first twenty years in a damned tower. She had crossed Ferelden on foot a half-dozen times. A few flights of stairs should be easy. With a nod and firm push, she began her climb.

About twenty steps into it, Solona accepted that she had made a horrible mistake. A month in a coma and nearly another in a dungeon - it was too much for her. She panted and strained with each step, her muscles crying out in protest. She was a fool. A rash, prideful fool. She should have sent for Zevran or paid the bloody guard to carry her up.

The air grew suddenly stifling. Cold sweat beaded across her brow and dripped down her neck. Her vision thinned as black shadows seeped into the edges of her sight. It was hard to breathe.

"Sol."  Her name seemed to float in from the distance.  "Solona.  Sol?"

She hazarded another step, her foot sliding upon its rough surface.  The already spinning horizon tilted hard before her.

Warm arms embraced her just as her vision went black.

 

* * *

 

 

A half hour later, Solona awoke to the stroke of gentle fingers against her brow. She heard music - a song - being whispered to her. As she struggled back through the heavy blackness, she listened to the vaguely familiar tune, trying to place it. Her mind was too fuzzy to sort the words, but the cadences still managed to dredge up some long-forgotten memories. She remembered the echo of the song against dead stone, the long coils of white smoke wafting upwards from endless rows of flickering candles, the scent of wood polish as she fidgeted on a hard pew.  

She groaned as she placed it: it was Chantry hymn.

Prying open her eyes, Solona found herself in an unfamiliar room. She huffed at the sight; she was getting really damn tired of waking up in strange beds. Her eyes focused on the dark figure hovering over her: Alistair.

Of course it was Alistair.

"Why, in bloody Andraste's name, are you singing Chantry songs?" she muttered, struggling to sit up.

Relieved to see her awake, Alistair sat back upon the bedside. He shrugged. "They didn't exactly teach us tavern ditties in the Chantry. I know about a hundred hymns though. I could probably do a nursery rhyme or two if you like."

She blinked blurredly, her eyes no longer used to the bright light of day. "That doesn't answer why."

"You told Leliana that you liked it when she ...” he trailed off.   After everything he had said and done - the hurt, the rejection, the imprisonment and more - Alistair chose now to look embarrassed. He blushed as he spoke again. “Look, just, never mind. Forget I tried." He sighed before forcing a smile. "Besides, why can't we have nice, normal conversations anymore?" he lamented. "Like: ' _Why, thank you, Alistair, for catching me when I blacked-out'_ ," he imitated her voice in falsetto. "And then I could say something like: _'Oh you're very welcome, Solona. I was happy to help.'_ And then you'd say: _'And I'm sorry for being so stubborn. I would have cracked my pretty little skull open if you hadn't been there to catch me in your strong, manly arms and carry me up the stairs_ , _and_ -' " He stopped at her look of disgust. "No?"

"No."

“Ah. That’s too bad, really. You know, you were dead for barely twenty minutes on that tower and now you're just no fun anymore,” he teased.

Solona scowled in response, not in any sort of mood for jokes. She opened her mouth to speak - to spew insults or demand a better explanation, but the brush of magic against her skin stopped her dead.

The Veil stroked against her.

 _Magic_.

Sweet, Maker blessed, magic. How could she have forgotten it?

Choking, she grabbed blindly, greedily at the Veil, clenching a thirst she had not thought she would survive. She cast any and all spells she could think of, lighting crackling through the air. She bathed herself in fire, feeling _clean_ for the first time since she awoke from her coma. A low moan broke past her lips. She felt better than she had in months. Her body was still heavy with fatigue, but her magic sang stronger than ever. She felt alive.

Leaning back against the headboard, she let the rush of it soak into her veins, bathing in the afterglow.   She had missed it more than sunlight. Coming back down from the high of it, she glanced at the bedclothes, pleased to see they were not scorched. Despite her resent abstinence, she had not lost any control.

To her eternal annoyance, she looked up to find Alistair beaming back at her. "Feeling better, love?" The cocky bastard had not so much at flinched at her display. After all her scorn, how could he be so certain her magic would not harm him? His confidence was infuriating.

"Where am I?" she changed the subject.

Clearing his throat and feigning nonchalance, Alistair answered, "These are your rooms." The nervousness in his voice only added to her suspicions.

Solona looked about the room. It was huge and lavishly decorated. Warm sunlight poured through the vast windows that covered the far wall. A pair of elaborate doors opened onto a grand balcony, overlooking the vibrant green of a private courtyard.   She recognized a few pieces of matching furniture from her cell: the dressing screen with delicate birds painted upon it, the high-backed chaise with little embroidered flowers.

It was definitely not the Wardens Compound.

"Where am I?" she asked again.

He looked away. "These are the, ah, Consort's Chambers," he muttered.  

The string of curses that followed would have made Oghren proud. With Alistair blocking one side of the bed, Solona shuffled gracelessly to the far side and dropped her bare feet onto the floor. The soft plush of the carpet between her toes only further antagonized her.

"Where are you going?" asked Alistair as she stood.

She ignored him, balancing carefully on shaky legs. Most of her clothing had been removed, leaving her only in a thin shift. She scanned the room looking for the Circle robes she had worn for her dungeon departure.

"My rooms are just through there," he said, gesturing at the pair of large carved doors. "Eamon will have a fit, but if you'd rather stay there, I'm more than happy to oblige-"

"The Wardens Compound," she interrupted his musing. "I'm going to the Wardens Compound." _And away from all this_ , she added to herself.

Alistair sighed in reply, shaking his head. "You couldn't make it up twenty stairs, Sol. The Compound is on the other side of the palace. How far do you think you'll make it before you pass out again?"

Standing now, Solona’s blood rushed away from her head, leaving her dizzy and weak. Her knees threatened to buckle as she reached a hand back to steady herself upon the bed.

He was right. She glared over her shoulder at him, ungracious in defeat. With a huff, she sat back down upon the edge of the bed.

"Look, Sol, just rest here for another couple hours, eat something - _anything_ \- and then I'll take you to the Wardens Compound, okay?"

She eyed him, suspicious. "I'm not going anywhere with you," she spat.

Alistair rolled his eyes. "I'll have the guards take you in a gurney. Or I'll find Zevran, if you really want. Or I'll hook a chariot up to your blasted dog. Whatever you want - I swear it, okay? Cross my heart, hope to die, Morrigan stick a needle in my eye," he said, one hand tracing an X across his chest.

Solona slid back onto the bed, sitting up against the headboard. Crossing her arms before her, she conceded. "Fine."  

"Alright then," said Alistair, rising and walking to the door. He left for a moment, presumably to request some food, before returning to sit once more at her bedside.

Solona tried her best to ignore him, pretending to stare out into the courtyard. She used to enjoy their quiet companionship - the nights where they could sit in silence next to the campfire and just bask in the warmth of holding a loved-one near. He would wrap an arm about her, lacing their fingers together, and stealing quick kisses when he thought no one was looking.  

She swallowed the lump that began to rise in the back of her throat, praying that he would look away before she grew weepy at the memories.   Yet his attention did not waiver. "You're just going to sit there and stare at me until food arrives?" she bristled. Spite was easier than sorrow.

"Yep. And while you eat it too."

Undeterred, Solona resumed her staring. Across the room, a finely carved clock sat upon the mantel, ticking madly back them. It mingled with the silence, all too quickly becoming suffocating.

"Don't you have kingly things to do?" Solona finally asked. "You are still king, aren't you?"

He laughed. "Yes, with the crown, the throne, the tights, the whole thing really. ‘ _King Alistair the Foolish, first of his name_ ,’" he lamented.  He shifted from the chair to sit upon the edge of the bed. "But even kings can demand a day off now and then - no matter how cross it makes Eamon." He glanced at the low afternoon sun. "Well, a half-day, anyways."

She gave a noncommittal "hmph" in reply.

"Speaking of kingly duties, there's going to be an official celebration for the end of the Blight in a couple weeks." His voice was cautious. "If you're feeling up to it, you should attend."

"I'd rather not," she replied curtly. It was petty, she knew, but she didn't want any part of the celebrations. She couldn't do it. She couldn't stand next to Alistair and feign good cheer. Somehow the happiest days of Solona's life had been during the Blight. There had been horror and sorrow and fury too, but those nights, weaving their way along the King's Highway, Solona had been free. She had known companionship, love, joy, hope. And now, it was over.

"It's for Duncan and Riordan and all the Wardens who died at Ostagar." Alistair paused as though trying gauge her reaction. "Oghren, Sten, Shale - they'll all be there. It might be your last chance to see them." He shifted himself into her line of vision. At her silence, he continued. "I'm going to give the Wardens Amaranthine,” he explained. “Please, just come, accept Amaranthine on behalf of the Wardens, smile and wave at your masses of adoring fans, you know, that sort of thing."

For all that she may have had mixed feeling on Duncan, Solona could not deny that Riordan had been a good man, a brave man, who died trying to spare her life. As for her companions, she had known from the start that one day, in either victory or defeat, they would all part ways. And yet she missed them already - even Sten's stern admonishments and Oghren's drunken antics. Not saying goodbye was one of the few regrets she could easily avoid.

"Just for a little while, maybe," she conceded.

It earned her a smile from Alistair. "You know, it's tradition for the great hero to request some sort of boon at these." He tried to take her hand.

She pulled back, crossing her arms tight against her chest. "You know what I want."

"I’m not so certain what you want any more," he sighed beneath his breath.

Solona sniffed, feigning a lack of surprise. "The Circle's independence from the Chantry."

"Ah," he gave a joyless laugh. "If that's all then..." He shook his head. "I don't think that's mine to give. You'd be better off asking for a title or lands or a fortune or something."

"Why bother? So long as the Chantry holds the Circle, I can't have any of those."

"Ah, but you're not of the Circle anymore," he corrected. "You're a Warden, remember? So, how about that pony you’ve always wanted instead? Forty-foot statue in your honour? National Amell Day? Lifetime supply of cheese?"

She glared at him.

"Alright, the Circle then, I'll work on it." He paused, swallowing hard before continuing. "Actually, I have something for you now," he admitted. He rose to fetch a small stack of papers from the table and handed them to her.

Solona leafed through the documents, a furl upon her brow. Whatever she had been expecting, it certainly wasn't this; they were lineage papers for a half-dozen mabari from the Royal Kennels. Having had precisely one pet in her entire lifetime, Solona was far from an expert on animal husbandry, but she supposed from the precision and ornate design of the documents that these hounds were prized animals.

She scanned the papers once more before setting them onto her lap; they were all female. "You know, when Eamon said you needed a well-bred wife, this probably wasn't what he had in mind."

Alistair laughed - an honest, genuine laugh. When had she last heard him laugh so freely? Had it been so long since they were truly happy? Fixing her scowl, Solona quickly swallowed her nostalgia.

"Ahh, my sassy lady returns," he smiled.

She ignored his mirth. "What are these?" she asked. "You want a mabari?"

He shook his head. "Well, no, not really - but I thought ... I thought maybe Daro would, ah..." he trailed off, a faint blush painting across his cheeks.

"You're pimping for my dog?" she asked, incredulous.

"What?! Andraste's ass, no!"

"But you don't want a mabari?"

He cleared his throat before continuing. "No, ah, not right now. But I thought, it would be nice if our child had one. You know, a loyal friend to grow-up with, that sort of thing."

Solona froze, her breath catching in her chest as the papers slid forgotten off the side of her lap. “Don’t,” she warned him.

Alistair shifted closer, bending slightly to meet the level of her eye. "Can't we at least talk about the child?"

She swallowed, staring straight ahead. No words could find their way into her throat, her indecision and fears choking her. It had been barely an hour since she was freed from the dungeon. She wasn’t ready for this. She wasn’t ready to accept that she was going to have a child with the man she no longer trusted. She wasn’t ready to shoulder the responsibility of another life. She wasn't even certain she could manage her own.

"Sol," Alistair breathed, moving closer still. "I love you." He brushed against her. "And I love our child. Maker, you've no idea how happy I am about this." He dared to lay a hand against the plane of her still flat stomach.

She slapped the offending limb away. "Stop it," she hissed.

He pulled back the slightest inch. "I know you don't want to believe it, but child or no, I wouldn't have lasted another week without you." He gave a sad little smirk. "I would have come crawling back, begging for forgiveness." He laughed, low and joyless. "Sort of like now…"

He tried to cup at her cheek, but she turned away.

"You can't stay mad at me forever, you know," he ventured.

She forced a scoff. "You’ve no idea."

"Nope," he countered. "And you know why?"

He sat on the edge of the bed next to her, his weight dipping the mattress and pulling her down closer to him. Before she could stop him, he kissed her, a quick, playful peck. She felt his slight smile against her lips as he withdrew. "Because you love me too."

Frost blossomed upon Solona’s fingertips as she pushed him away. She managed to stop herself before she sprayed her fool ex-lover in a layer of ice. She realized she had to act calmly, rationally, so that Alistair would accept her words. “Things change. What we had before is gone.” The words cut at her throat.

"That so?" he challenged. "Look me in the eyes, tell me you don't love me, and I'll leave you alone."

Solona let her eyes drop closed for a moment, and quietly drew in a deep breath. When she was certain her voice would not catch, she spoke. "I don't love you." She stared hard at him, morbidly pleased at how even and clear the words sounded.

Lightning quick, he snuck in another kiss before she could turn away. He gave a cheeky smirk. "Thank the Maker you're a horrible liar."

She clenched her firsts, holding back the ice that threatened to form once more.

"Look, this isn't how I imagined any of this," he said, gesturing about the room. "I wanted us to run off together after the Blight – let Eamon be king and go to Soldier’s Peak or Weisshaupt or Orlais or, I don’t know, just disappear for a while. Get married. Be a family.” His head dropped slightly. “I kept having these dreams where we’d leave the Wardens and have this little cottage in the Hinterlands with our children and your blasted dog,” he confessed. “You know I never wanted to be king. And I never, ever, wanted to hurt you. But it's done now and we can't go back. I'm king until they kick me off the throne, but I’m yours until I die.”

He was so close now, Solona could feel the brush of his breath against her cheek. Although they did not quite touch, his warmth engulfed her.

“Please, Sol, come back to me. Be my wife.”

Solona’s heart burned at his words. It wasn’t fair. He betrayed her, abandoned her, imprisoned her. He didn’t just get to force his future upon her. Did he truly think her so foolish that she had forgotten that he only came back to her because of the child? The child she wasn’t sure she wanted.

And what of the kingdom? Ferelden was still fragile, bandaged but yet bleeding in the wake of the Blight and the civil war. There were likely a dozen or more allies of Loghain lurking in the shadows, waiting for any excuse to usurp their bastard king - not to mention the constant threat of Orlesian expansion or Chantry interventions. The closer Solona stood to the throne, the more they endangered the fragile peace Alistair had built from the shards of her broken heart. To stay with him would make it all for naught.

"We can’t be together. You need to move on. Find someone else.” She managed to force the words out through her clenched teeth. Her advice sounded strangely simple to her, hypocritical as it was.

"You _died_ for me, Sol. How could I ever love another?"

“You left me once already. You’ll figure it out soon enough again,” she said, voice low and cold.

Before he could protest, Solona turned over to lie upon her side away from him. She didn’t want any of this. Her magic drew tight about her, cloaking her, shielding her, running hot and cold and comforting through her veins.

Alistair cleared his throat. "Let me give you some advice as someone who has already succeeded in hurting his lover: when the regret comes - and it _does_ come - it's hard and fast and suffocating."

He stroked at her back. Her magic didn’t burn him. _It should have burned him._ She didn’t trust him anymore.

"But I promise you this, Sol, when you're finished being angry and the regret comes, I'll still be here. I'll still love you."

A knock on the door and the arrival of the food saved her from any more discussion.

 

* * *

 

 

True to his word, after Solona had silently picked at some minimal amount of food and feigned resting for an hour or so, Alistair had gone to find Zevran. Of course, he had had no real idea of where he might find their ex-Crow companion. After wandering the outer limit of the palace grounds, Alistair made his way back to Solona’s – or at least the Consort’s – Chambers. He was unsurprised to see Zevran already waiting there.

Solona and the elf had laughed and embraced like old lovers. Seeing Zevran seemed to reignite some spark of life within her; she glowed. It was exactly the sort of reunion that Alistair wished they had shared.

She had insisted upon walking at least part of the way to the Wardens Compound. With her arm around Zevran's shoulder and his hand snaked about her waist, they made slow but steady progress across the palace. While they walked, Zevran regaled Solona with stories of his adventures - both old tales of his time with the Crows and new exploits from their time apart. She had smiled, radiant as sunshine at the assassin’s stories.   Her mabari skipped merrily around the pair, happily barking now and then at the sight of his recovering master.

Alistair had followed dejectedly a dozen or so paces behind.

When she tired, Zevran quite literally swept her off her feet and carried her the remainder of the way. She had laughed and called Zevran 'her knight', her words stoking Alistair's jealousy.

The Wardens Compound was a lonely place these days. The contingent of Orlesian Wardens had stayed only briefly before moving on to Amaranthine, leaving only the handful of returning serving staff to haunt its corridors. Aside from them, the keep was all but deserted. Built to house a hundred or so of Ferelden’s Grey Wardens, the Compound was a fine old monument of stone.   The bunking quarters, offices, kitchen and armoury were far from glamorous, but once, as a new Warden, they had felt like home to Alistair.

It was there that Alistair had left Solona and Zevran a few days ago, and it was there that he returned to now. When they last spoke, it had been abundantly clear that Solona did not want him around. And that was fair, Alistair conceded. She was still hurt, confused, and angry; he could understand that.

So, he gave her the time and space she wanted. For five days, Alistair threw himself into his royal duties, suddenly the very model of a monarch. He understood that when the day came for him to announce his marriage to Solona and their expectant child, he would need to already hold the regard of most of the nobility. He had to show himself as competent now if they were to have any hope of being accepted later.

Alistair wound his way around the training yard, stopping at the entrance to one of the bunking halls for junior Wardens. Like the rest of the Compound, it had been ransacked not long after Ostagar. Anything of value had been pilfered and sold, leaving only the toppled wooden frames of the bunks and few empty footlockers to haunt the dusty hall.  

As his mind wandered on Solona, Alistair’s feet drew him deeper into the chamber and to the site of his old bunk. Righting the battered wooden frame, he sat down heavily upon it. Its familiar creak was strangely comforting. He reached down to grab an old grey blanket, laying crumpled and forgotten upon the dirty floor. As he pulled it into his lap, he noticed the “A” sloppily embroidered into a corner. He gave a sniff of laughter; those old Chantry habits died hard. Absently, he shook the blanket free of dust. He frowned as he folded it, suddenly irrationally worried that Solona was cold at night.

He had managed to wrangle a few details out of Wynne following her daily visits to the Compound. Solona was apparently in as good as health as could be expected, though fairly sullen in spirits. For a woman once so desperate to be free of the dungeon, she rarely left her rooms. She still refused to acknowledge the child and Wynne had not yet seen fit to force the issue.

Alistair had truly wanted to give her as much distance as she liked, but in the end, he found that he simply missed her too much to stay away. Although Solona may not have accepted it, she was his wife. They had survived a Blight, they loved each other, and they were having a child. They should be picking out baby names, and making love day and night \- not hiding away on opposite ends of the palace. He understood that they were still a long ways off from that, but for now he would overjoyed to just hold her for a few minutes. Even a kiss upon the cheek would brighten his day.

And yes, he was certain that despite her claims, she did still love him. She had confirmed it twice since the Landsmeet: once upon Fort Draken as she went to her death, and again upon first awakening. Alistair was certain that if he was persistent in showing her his love and devotion, she would come around.

Decided, he stood, tucked the blanket under his arm, and headed towards Solona’s room.

She had chosen modest accommodations, outright refusing the Warden Commander’s Chambers. Instead, she took a small but bright room likely meant for a visiting guest, far away from the kitchens and serving quarters. For whatever reason, Solona seemed determined to distance herself with any sort of command.

Alistair paused at her closed door. She was in – the staff had confirmed it.

He knocked at the door. “Sol?”

There was no answer.

“Solona, can we please just talk?,” he called, knocking again.

He tried the door, but found it locked. Pressing his ear against the door, his breath hitched as he thought heard a moan. The hairs upon his forearms prickled at the touch of magic. He strained to hear through faded wood panels; the sound of his own blood seemed to roar within his ears. There was another moan. Something was very, very wrong.

“Sol?!” he shouted, banging now.

A pained cry cut through the door, followed only by thick, horrifying silence.

Alistair’s heart skipped in panic. Tossing the blanket aside, he threw his shoulder against the door, once, twice, three times with no result. Stumbling back, he kicked hard against the lock, setting the door shuttering upon its hinges. He kicked again and again until the wood about the lock fractured. Bracing himself, Alistair threw himself at the door.

As the door gave way, Alistair stumbled across the threshold to see a man lift Solona from her bed and into his arms. She moaned, unconscious, as the man held her against his chest. Red blood streaked the lower half of her shift and the white linens upon her bed.

Behind them, a Veil tear rippled gently in faint shades of blue.

“Solona!” Alistair shouted at her, drawing his sword.

The man gave Alistair one careless look before stepping through the Veil tear, Solona grasped securely in his arms.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally made it to the turning point! Yay! It only took four more chapters than I had planned. This took forever to finish and I just wanted it to be over so we can move on. This chapter was even further delayed as I wanted to finish rewriting Chapter 1 before posting it. So, yay, new Chapter 1 too.
> 
> I’ve always liked the idea that a mage’s magic won’t hurt someone s/he trusts (unless s/he intends it). So, one of Solona’s companions can walk through her Inferno unscathed, but if she really wanted to, she could still freeze them solid. (Mainly because I’m bad at games and I need a way to make myself feel better about always play with Friendly Fire off ...)


	11. The Fade

Solona knelt closer to the fire, rubbing her hands as she bathed in its heat.  It was a surprising cold night, but glancing about their quiet camp, none of her companions seemed bothered by the chill. 

Through the flicker of the flames, she watched Leliana strum a tune on her lute.  It was a song Solona knew, but could not quite place the name.  Absently, she tried to hum along, only to find herself shivering in the chill.  Surely Leliana's fingers were frozen; Solona wondered how she could still play. 

Solona pulled her magic tight against her skin, cloaking herself in the slight warmth it offered.  She pushed some stray tendrils  into the campfire, coaxing the blaze up into the night's sky. 

Nearby, Wynne leafed idly through a book, ignoring Zevran's crude commentary as he polished his blades.  Oghren was passed out next to them, snoring and grumbling in his sleep.  Off in the distance, beside his lonesome tent, Sten meditated, apparently ignorant of the cold.  Further out still, Shale huffed and moaned about something or rather, as Bodahn rummaged through his cart and Sandal danced about merrily nearby.  Solona looked back over her shoulder to Morrigan's crude shelter; the witch was likewise deep in thought, staring into her own campfire.

Solona frowned as she seemed to forget someone.  Someone important.

_Jowan_. 

_Right,  Jowan._

She glanced back to her left, confirming that Jowan and Irving remained crouched over the First Enchanter's desk, still sorting through a stack of brittle old scrolls.  She smiled; it pleased Solona to see them working together.

She shivered once more as the cold seeped past her magic.  Idly, she wondered where Cullen had gone off to; he usually stayed close to the fire with her.  Perhaps he wasn't on Watch tonight and had remained upstairs.  Ah, no, there he was - standing in the shadow of the bookcases.  Even in the cold night air, a rosy blush painted itself across Solona's cheeks as she met the Templar's eye  and then quickly looked away.

Turning back to the fire, Solona yawned and stretched up towards the hazy green of the night's sky.  She glanced longingly towards her tent, wondering if it was too early to retire.  She felt tired - not sleepy, but worn through.  Weighed down.  Heavy. 

Perhaps she would make it an early night, crawl into her lonely tent, and - _there it was again_ : the feeling that she was missing someone.  She scanned around the camp, counting her companions.   No.  Everyone she loved - had ever loved- was here.

But the feeling of absence did not abate.  Solona counted again, glancing between the camp and Irving's study, knowing something was wrong, but unable to place it.  She shook her head, perhaps it was later than she thought.   How long had she been sitting here next to the fire?  Listing back, she tried to recount the events of the day.  Before sitting at the fireside, she must have helped set up the camp.  Yet she could not recall any of the dinner preparations or wood gathering that must have taken place.   And before that, she and her companions must have spent a long day travelling to... travelling to...   Solona gaped at the blanked expanse of her memory: she could not remember where they had been travelling to or even from. 

So, why were they travelling?    At least that she could remember: the Blight.   She shook her head.  No.  The Blight was over.  She had slain the archdemon herself.  She shouldn't be in this camp.  Irving and Jowan and Cullen, with their scrolls and bookcases and stone towers _definitely_ should not in the camp.

And then, like a ray of sunlight piercing the morning's mist, Solona shook off her stupor:  it was the lie.  It was all a lie.

Her braids fell back from her face as Solona wretched her eyes upward towards the sky.   She found the moon and stars missing, replaced instead with a sickly grey-green vortex.  Jagged grey spires lined the horizon.  In the distance, the Black City loomed.

Her breath felt short, her chest tight in fear.  It felt like the Fade -  but the sensation was wrong - so very, very wrong.  The cold of the Fade usually seeped with an relentless crawl into the deeper recesses of her soul.  But now, the chill felt more corporeal.  More solid.  More _real_.  It crept through her chest and pooled in her heart.  It was overwhelming. 

Slowly, she let her hand fall from her lap and onto the ground beside her.  Her fingertips rasped against the earth,  gathering a small mound into her palm.  Squeezing, she felt the scratch of its grit and the sharp cut of a stray stone against her skin.  The details were too fine to compare to any of her past journeys into the Fade.

With a strangled gasp, she understood: she was in the Fade - _well and truly in the Fade_.  Like the magisters of ancient Tevinter, she had somehow breached the Veil and physically walked through the Fade.  She blinked, trying to sort the memories.  She hadn't walked.  Something had drawn her through.

Solona tried not to panic, not to reveal to whatever demons or _others_ that may be watching that she had seen through the illusion.  Her chest burned as she forced her breath to slow.  She pulled her trembling hands back into her lap.  It was then that she noticed part of the reason for her chill: instead of her usual robes, she wore a silver gown, too fine and delicate for the coarse hostility of the Fade.  She ran a thumb over the sparkling embroidery, trying to discern if it was real or just another illusion.  The fabric flowed like water against her.  Even in the dull sourceless light of the Fade, its little twists of silver shone bright.  She pushed down the uncomfortable questions that wearing an unknown garment raised.

Glancing around her, it was all so obvious now.  The shadows that pretended as her family were cheap illusions.  They looked flat and blurred against the landscape.  The music and friendly chatter had never actually sounded; they were nothing but false memories.

And then, at last, she remembered who had been missing all along.

Solona's breath caught in her throat as she glanced slightly to her right to where he used to sit. 

Just as she had somehow known, a figure  was crouched a few feet away, his back turned to her.  His armor looked mostly familiar, but still, something was wrong.  Unlike the rest of her companions, he lacked the telltale shimmer of illusion.  His lines were clean against the horizon; he did not bleed into the Fade's ether. 

Solona swallowed down the urge to shout out to him.  It made no sense for Alistair to be in the Fade - but then again, neither did she.  Did he know they were trapped?  She thought back to their time at Kinloch Hold and how he had refused to see past the demon's illusion then.  He probably had no idea.

 "Alistair?" she whispered.

With shaking knees, Solona rose and took a few cautious steps towards him.  She called his name again.  He did not answer, did not turn or even respond.  Although it was difficult to be sure in the Fade's hollow light, his hair looked darker than Alistair's sandy blonde.  His figure was familiar, but not quite right.

She stepped carefully towards him.  With each footfall, her breath grew tighter in her chest.  Somewhere, deep in the bottom of her heart, she _knew_.  Yet, she could not bring herself to disbelieve.  His name fell again as a choked whisper from her lips.

"Alistair?" she called, her voice breaking, terrified both that he would and would not answer.

To her uncontainable terror, he turned to answer with a movement too quick and graceful to be her lover.

For all that her instincts screamed to flee - to run and hide - Solona forced herself to hold and regard the man that stood before her.  He was tall.  Strong.  Handsome, even. 

Her chest seized in panic.  _No_.  Not a man.  Something else.  Something _wrong_. 

Solona stumbled back, her feet clumsy in the dirt.  She could feel it now - magic and something _more_ wafted off the figure.  He wasn't a demon, but he certainly wasn't human.

A wrong step had her slipping upon a stone, and then tumbling backwards.  Her shout of panic was nothing more than a choked cry as she hit the ground.  The sharp corners of stone cut into her palms as she scrambled back.  The heels of her boots scratched into the earth, kicking up clouds of dust in their frantic search for purchase.  Her magic deserted her - caught in panic like the screams crowding into her throat.

The man stepped forward.  He smiled, crouched down, and offered his hand. 

"Hello, mother."

 

* * *

 

 "I don't know!" Alistair shouted once again.  Crouched over in the rickety chair, he let his forehead fall into his hands.  Wynne and Zevran loomed over him, demanding once more that he recount every detail of Solona's disappearance. 

Not knowing what else to do, Alistair had run to his old companions as soon as the Veil tear had closed.  They had tried all combinations of Wynne's magic and Alistair's templar abilities, but no sign of the tear could be found.  They gathered inside Solona's room, the broken door and bloodied sheets the only evidence that Alistair had not dreamt up the abduction.

"He had dark hair, fair skin, on the taller side - maybe about my height.  That's all I know.  Fereldan, Orlesian, Freemarcher maybe - probably not Antivan or Rivanni - or maybe he was - I don't know! " 

Zevran towered over him.  "Nothing else? " he demanded.  "You remember nothing else?"

Wynne grasped his hand, gentle and comforting.  "Alistair, please, try to remember.  Anything at all could help."

He shook his head.  They had already been through it a dozen times or more.   Every detail of the mere moment Alistair had had to observe the stranger had already been repeated and scrutinized.  There was nothing else he could remember.  

Alistair blinked.  Well, actually, there was _something_.  Not a memory, but a feeling.  "He ... " Alistair shook his head.  It was foolish.  It made no sense at all.  It was probably useless at best, and distracting at worst.  "He reminded me of Cailan.  Just something - I don't know - in his eyes or his cheeks or jaw or something - it was like Cailan."

Zevran swore beneath his breath as he and Wynne exchanged glances. 

Alistair's gaze flickered between the pair, not understanding.  "What?" he demanded. 

"Like Cailan?" 

"Yes, Cailan.  Just, _something_ , I don't know."

Wynne's voice was soft but kind when she spoke.  "Oh, my boy, not Cailan."  She placed a hand against his cheek, something like pity in her eyes.  "He looked like you."

 

* * *

 

 Solona kicked out at the man kneeling before her.   Somehow, she managed to stumbled back to her feet, her stance unsteady, her mind reeling.  "Stay back!" she warned.  Her magic coiled about her fingertips.

The man frowned; the slight lines at the corners of his mouth were unnervingly familiar.   "Are you unwell, mother?"

She ignored his question.  "Who are you?"

His frown deepened.  "I am your son," he answered as though it were obvious.

_Lies_.  _Demons and lies_.

Around them, the illusion of the old camp evaporated into the grey.  The pair faced each other on a barren Fade isle, a handful of twisted shrubs the only witnesses.

"What do you want?"

The spirit cocked his head to one side, his brow furled.  He appeared to consider for a moment before answering slowly and thoughtfully.  "I am content, mother."

_Mother._   He had said it again.    

"What do you want?" she demanded louder this time.  Her bark strong enough to hide the quiver of fear. 

His confusion grew to exasperation.   "I wish for you to be pleased, mother."

"Tell me who you are - _what_ you are," she demanded. 

He stepped forward.  She stepped back.  As in any other battle she had found herself in the last year, Solona took a moment to size up her opponent.  He was tall, standing a good head above her.  His dark hair suggested youth, but his age was unclear.  Likewise, his armor hid any details about his build.

When he lifted his foot to take another step forward, Solona let loose her magic.  Lightning crackled about her.  It was mostly for show: a spell to charge the spells that would follow.  It conveyed all the threat of the drawing of a sword from its scabbard but with infinitely more flash.

The spirit seemed to understand her panic.  Dropping his hands to his side, he took a slow step back.  When Solona again demanded his identity, he drew a long breath before  answering.  "I ..." He paused, looking uncertain.  "I am your son, but before I was not.  I think I've had many names."  At her silence he continued.  "Once, I was called Urthemiel.  I remember that."  He gave a slight nod.  "You could call me that.  Unless," he paused, his glance almost hopeful  as he surveyed her gaze, "Unless you have a new name for me?"

Her bark of laughter was cold.  Whatever stood before was a demon's trick, delusion or dream.  It could not possibly be an Old God - the very idea was absurd.  "I don't know what game you're playing at, but you'll need a better lie than that," she warned.

"I would not lie to you, mother."

"Look, I don't know what in Burning Andraste's name you are, but you are sure as hell are not an Old God."

Solona let her magic swirl about her, wild and unchained.  Magic in the Fade - physically, corporeally in the Fade - was a delight.  The Fade was the source of all magic, and without the dulling filter of the Veil to dampen its flow, Solona drank freely from it.  It snapped and snarled about her, and she stood taller in the comfort of its power.  "I'm only going to ask once more: what do you want?"

He shook his head as he repeated, "I wish for you to be pleased."

"You want to please me?  Either tell me what in Burning Andraste's name is going on, or do a damn better job at pretending to be an Old God."

In a flash, his expression changed to one of inspiration.  A flick of his wrist opened a Fade portal at Solona's side.  Glancing at it through the corner of her eye, she could spot no difference from the portals she once traversed at Kinloch Hold. 

The one who called himself Urthemiel gestured towards the cold twists of grey and violet.  "Come.  I will show you."

Step blindly into the mysterious portal that some crazed man or spirit or _thing_ conjured up on a whim?  Solona scoffed, "Not a chance."

In turn, the spirit sighed once more, patience lost.  "Very well," he muttered.

Before she could react, the spirit vanished from before her and reappeared at her side.  With a gentleness that contradicted his force, he grabbed her and pushed her through.

 

* * *

 

A scream lodged in her throat, Solona tumbled through the portal, landing hard upon her hands and knees.  Her breathes came in shuddering gasps.  _Still alive_ , she confirmed after a moment.  Still alive.

The cold and unkind air confirmed she remained in the Fade.  Beneath her palms lay coal black cobblestones.  She stared down at them for too long.  Black was a surprisingly rare commodity in the Fade.  Grey was in abundance, often twisted with sickly hues of green and purple, but never the oily thickness of a true _Black_. 

Solona's eyes flickered about her.  She knelt within a great city of Black.  Black spires coiled up from the abandoned black streets in all directions.  The answer, so painfully obvious hit her with enough force to stall her breath: the Black City. 

She searched the coiling green of the Fade's sky for confirmation.  Despite their many eons of careful study, the mages of the Circle knew very little of the Fade.   They knew it was the realm of spirits and demons.  They knew that the dreaming minds of mortals often visited.  And they knew that the Black City, supposedly the corrupted remains of the Maker's kingdom, was viewable from every corner of the Fade.  Solona's eyes scanned the sky for any of sign of the Black City, but of course, she found none. She could not see the Black City within the sky, for she knelt upon it now.

As the avalanche cascading down a mountain's side, the enormity of her situation continued to grow.   She was tumbling, tossed into a dangerous decent.  Not only was she the first mortal to walk within the Fade since the age of Old Tevinter, she was likely the first human to see the Black City in any form. 

The one who called himself Urthemiel came to stand before her.  "This was your desire, yes?"  he asked.

At her blank stare, he carried on.  "Before, when it was just the two of us, this was what you wanted: to go to the Black City."  He turned to regard it, seemingly indifferent about the location, but yet anxious for her response.  "Does this please you?"

"I'm not your mother," were the only whispered words she could find. 

She could not miss the way the tick  at the order of his lips.  "You are," he replied, his words clipped as his brows drew together in frustration.  "You rescued me from that ..." he paused as though searching for the word.  "... that _Tainted_ thing.  You carried me in the Thedas and protected me in the Fade."  He reached out for her hand, but again she pulled back and up on  to her feet, afraid.  "The demons offered you everything - power, wealth, your very life - but you protected me instead."  He was so near now, Solona should have felt his breath rasping upon her cheek.  "You _are_ my mother," he insisted.

"No," she said again, the only word she could seem to find in the face of his wild tale.

This man's mouth parted slightly as he seemed to come to a sudden realization.  "You don't remember," he sounded puzzled.  "I thought you would remember," he mumbled mostly to himself.  He shook his head as though it mattered little.  He startled Solona as he suddenly leaned forward to loom closer still.

"Remember," he commanded as he pressed a hand against her temple.

Before Solona could push him away, a jolt of energy sharper than any magic she knew ran through her.  The memories crashed in upon her: the grey light of the Fade, the child that appeared before her, the silken voice of demons, running, fear, and then, Morrigan.

She saw, but she would not believe.

And then, half a heartbeat later, it was over.  As the wave of memories receded, Solona stumbled back, retching, coughing, choking on the acrid bile that rose into her throat.

The man leaned in as though to brace her. 

"Don't touch me!" she warned, pushing against him and staggering back onto her feet.  The way the man held himself at a respectful distance unnerved her.  If he was a demon, he should have pounced while she was dazed upon her knees.  "Prove you're not just a spirit or a demon or ..." she trailed off, uncertain of what else he could be.

The man opened his mouth as though to argue, but then chose to hold his  tongue.  With a sigh and a careless flick of the wrist, he opened another portal before them. 

"Come," he demanded before striding through.

The portal stared back at Solona as she debated what to do.  It's twisting violet ether looked comical against the malachite city walls.   

Solona could not help but question the spirit's every reaction: was his exasperation genuine or just a convincing facade?  It was madness to go after him.  She should try to run, hide, find fortifications to defend herself from him, anything but step through that damned portal.

She rubbed her arms as the cold of the Fade seeped further into her bones.  Where would she go that he could not find her?  From the way he so easily summoned the portals, he was clearly a master of this domain.

With little else to do, she followed. 

 

* * *

 

Stepping through, Solona found herself upon yet another indistinguishable Fade isle.  For all she knew, it could have been the same one she visited during her Harrowing or when she was trapped by the Sloth demon, or, most likely, one she had never seen before and would never see again.

She startled backwards at the Rage demon that stood unmoving before her.   She would have run had the man not waited so carelessly next to it. 

"Demon," the man addressed the churning mass of hate and rage before them with a casual indifference.  After a moment's consideration, he commanded, "Rend yourself in two."

Without thought or hesitation, the demon grasped each side of its jaw and, sinking its claws into its own flesh, began to pull.  It was a small mercy to Solona that Rage demons were among the least humanoid of the Fade's creatures.  Their faces had no clear features; there were no eyes to stare back at her as it wretched its own jaw apart.  And yet that did not stop it from screaming. 

How many demons had she slain without a second thought?  A hundred?  More?  But the shrieks of this demon as it tore at itself made Solona's stomach churn.   It's screams cut at her ears  as it ripped itself in two, it's own claws trembling at the effort and yet unable to stop. 

Solona stumbled backwards once more, an expression of pure horror and unshielded fright painted across her face.  She panted in terror.

Seeing his mother's reaction, Uthermiel lifted his hand, and with a simple  gesture, the demon fell to dust, it's screams finally silenced. 

She cowered away from him.

"Please mother, you have nothing to fear from me."

Her heart was racing, thundering in fear and threatening to burst free of her chest.  "You..." she gasped and hiccuped around the words.  "You - how do I know you won't just make me rip myself apart too?"

His sigh was as though she were a foolish child.  "You are not a demon, mother.  You are human.  You have free will."

She was shaking, she realized, uncertain when she had started.  Her hands, her shoulders, her entire body, trembled and she could not make it stop.  An Old God.  An Old God stood before her, claiming to be her son.  It couldn't be, could it?  It was beyond an impossibility.  And yet, for all her doubts,  Morrigan's bizarre offer at Redcliffe hung over her.

"Why now?" It was the least important question she could ask, and yet somehow it rose to the top of her  mind.  "Why do this now?  Why not reveal yourself as soon as I killed the Archdemon?"

He looked thoughtful - distant, even - as he answered.  "I was weak at first - very weak.  I forgot myself.  What I was or was not.  I was ... torn between the Fade and the Thedas.  For a while, there was darkness as the Fade was hidden from me -  from us.  And then, I was not strong enough to open the portal to the Thedas alone.  Not yet.  I needed ...help."

" _'Help'_?"

"Blood," he answered  without emotion.  "My own - _our_ own," he explained.  "I had to sever my ties to the mortal realm."  His expression changed to that of one who had recently read a book on personability.  "Do not worry though," he gestured at her waist.  "I have mended you, made you well again."

She saw it then: a familiarity that frightened her.  He peered back at her with cold grey eyes that mirrored  her own.  The cut of his chin, the angle of his eyes  were all too similar to Alistair.  Even the cowlick in his hair - so contradictory to his polished attire - reminded Solona of her lover, save for the colour in her own earthy brown. 

He wore the image of her son as he would  have been.  

"What are you then?" she demanded once more.

He looked uncertain.  "I think, I was once a god."  After a moment, he nodded to himself.  "And then I was trapped as a beast.  While you carried me, I was human.  And now, I am ... I do not know."  He stepped closer to her.  "Parts of me still feel human."  His hands ran over his face.  The way his dark hair fell across his forehead, the shape of his eyes, the angle of his jaw, she saw so much of Alistair in him now.  "But I become ... _more_ , each moment.  More of what I once was.  I remember ... _being_ _more_ each moment."

He turned back to her.  "I know what I was.  I know what I will be.  But now, I am something else."  There was a strange gentleness in the way he regarded her.  "And now you believe."  Something almost like a smile curled its way onto his lips.  "So now you will help me."

"Help you?"  Solona's laughter was short and cold.  "Why would I help you?"

She knew his answer before even he spoke: "You are my mother."

 

* * *

 

"What do we do?" 

It was the only question Alistair could manage.  He glanced between his two companions, lost once again.  "What do we do?" he said again, his voice a coarse whisper.

He wore no crown today - in truth, he had worn it only the once during his own coronation - but for the past few weeks, he _had_ been a king: a leader.  And yet now, Alistair felt helpless, useless, worthless.

When they had been Wardens of the Blight, wandering back and forth along Fereldan's winding highways, Solona had been the one to make the hard decisions.  She led and he followed, both content with the arrangement.  In time, as their companionship had grown into friendship and finally blossomed into love, they learned to share in the burden of command.  As partners - lovers - they had plotted their course together. 

But now, he was lost once more. 

"Do we call the Templars?" he asked.

Zevran's answer was firm.  "No Templars," he warned.  His tone made it clear there would be no further discussion of Templars. 

Wynne nodded in quiet agreement.  There was a time and a place for Templars, and unfortunately none of those involved Solona Amell.

"So we just sit here and wait?!"  Alistair growled.  "We're just going to sit here and hope that she reappears?"

He loved Solona with everything that he was.  His wife.  The mother of his child.  He would walk through fire to see her safe and well.  And yet, there was no fire here.  No army for him to fight.  No chains for him to break.  What could he do?  Would he wait forever?

Only silence answered. 

And so, they sat, and waited, and hoped. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The incredibly difficult chapter I've put off writing for two years has instead become the incredibly difficult two chapters. So, update with the second part soon ... hopefully?


	12. The Return

"What now?"  Solona asked.  She coughed to hide the quiver in her voice,  willing herself to sound  brave even as she stood a single terrified mortal in the realm of demons. "What happens now?"

The man - _the Old God_ -  who claimed to be her son gave a faint smile.  The cold Fade's light washed away any attempt at tenderness.  "What would please you?"

"I want to go back," she answered too quickly.  When Urthemiel glanced at the shimmering portal that had carried them from the Black City, she clarified, "Back to the Thedas."

He shook his head.  "I told you, I've severed ties to the mortal realms.  I can't go back."

" _I_ want to go back," she stressed.  Her eyes darted to the charred remains of the Rage demon as she suppressed the shiver creeping up her spine.  When she pulled her gaze away, it fell instead to the coiling green of the Fade's sky. 

Through the silence, Solona felt a change.  It was as though the air grew colder, the sky fell dimmer. 

"Without me."  The spirit's voice turned hard.  That expression so close to a smile fell away.  "I gave you what you wanted.  I took you to the Black City.  But you don't want to stay," he accused.  His eyes bore through her for long strained moments or hours, until at last he sneered as he understood.  " _Him._   You want _him._ " 

The sudden shift from eager child to spiteful spirit had Solona drawing back once more. 

"I know the pain he caused you,"  he said, voice simmered low in anger.  "I _felt_ the pain he caused you.  He betrayed us.  Abandoned us.  Why do you long for him still?"

She shook her head, uncertain of what she was denying.

"I could look like him," he promised.  In an instant, his hair lightened and eyes darkened to sandy blonde and hazel.  The structure of his face shifted ever so slightly, and all too suddenly, Urthemiel looked identical to his mortal father.  "I could make you forget," he said, words frantic.  Around them, the old Warden's camp took shape once more.  Shapes and colours vaguely reminiscent of Solona's companions began to form.  "You would never know.  You could be happy here - just like you were before." 

The timbre of his voice shifted.  "Stay with me, my love," he beckoned in Alistair's gentle tones.

It was too much.  All of it, too much.  "Stop it," Solona begged.  Tears of stress and fear and panic welled up beneath her  eyes.  She cowered away, arms held tight about her chest in terror.   

The spirit froze at her tears.  His features melted back to his own, no longer Alistair's spectre.  His face was sad but kind as he leaned down to meet the level of her eye.  Reaching out a gentle hand, he cupped Solona's quivering cheek.  "Please, mother, do not cry," he whispered. "Please be happy."

Her lips parted and closed in turn, but she could find no more words.  Solona was uncertain how long they sat in silence, she shaking in quiet fear, and he unmoving and cold as a statue, until at last he spoke.  "I have come to a decision," he announced.

She stared up at the creature before her, terror still fresh in her blood, too afraid to speak.

"You will go back to the Thedas.  For now, you will go back."  He straightened, tall and regal before her.   " I must ... _remember_ before anything else.  I need time to remember and you are not ready to hear," he admitted.  "So you will go back."

 

* * *

 

Sometime later, Solona stepped cautiously out through the Fade-tear and back into the Thedas.  As her feet touched back upon the rough stone of the Warden's Compound, she wondered how long she had been absent.  Solona had often found that her sense of time was distorted in the Fade, but then again, she had never actually _been_ to the Fade before. 

It had taken what felt like hours for Urthemiel to reopen a portal back to the mortal world.  As he worked, Solona had found a sheltered outcrop of the jagged earth, tucked herself into it as though to hide from the false green sky, and quietly sobbed to herself until there were no more tears to be had, and she was left with little choice but to accept the absurdity of her situation. 

The pair spoke briefly once more before Solona departed back into the mortal realms.  Urthemiel had insisted upon teaching her the spell to reopen the tear into the Fade.  Without his own blood to anchor the spell, he would be unable to conjure the portal without her help.  There was enough left for one more journey, but after that, Solona would have to assist in the spell; she was as of yet uncertain if she would ever use it.

The first thing Solona saw upon her return was her bed and the dark stains upon it.  The browning of her blood upon the linens confirmed that at least an hour had passed since she had departed the mortal realms.  She frowned as she glanced down at the matching stain upon her shift.  The gown she had worn in the Fade was little more than a conjuration of dream dust; it would not have survived the journey back to the Thedas, and so Solona had been redressed in her stained shift before returning.  Both it and the bedding would have to be scrubbed out before her companions and questions arrived. 

It was only when she reached out to begin stripping the linens that she heard a little choked cough and looked up across the chamber.  Alistair and Wynne stared in wide-eyed shock back at her. 

"Oh," she managed, eyes glancing between the pair.  She swallowed down the sudden dryness in her throat.  "Um, hello," she said. 

Alistair spoke first.  "Thank the Maker," he breathed.  Before Solona could stop him, he closed the gap between them in three long strides and crushed her against his chest. 

 Solona coughed as her breath was squeezed from her.  A brief stupor held her before she pushed him back.  They weren't doing this.  Not now.  She shoved at him again.  "Let go.  I'm fine.  Really."

"Burning Andraste, look at you.  You're covered in ..."   He stared at the stains upon her shift for a moment as through perplexed.   It took a moment, but the pieces began to fall together.  "The child," Alistair rasped as he remembered.  "Wynne, you need to - "

Enough was enough.  Solona dug in her heels as he ushered her towards the bed.  A hard shove at his shoulders finally managed to gain his attention.  "There's no need," she said.  "It's gone."  The words tumbled thoughtlessly out as she grabbed an old robe and pulled it on.   

As the words passed her lips, Solona realized she had not truly grasped the situation until now.  There would be no child.  She had no idea how she felt about that.  As she glanced to Alistair, her chest drew tight; he looked devastated. 

It was Wynne who eventually took charge of the chaos.  She pulled a chair from the adjacent desk and set it in the middle of the room.  "Sit," she commanded Solona.  "Explain.  Where you went.  What happened.  Who took you.  All of it."

But what was there to say?  That the Old Gods were real and Solona had briefly been mother to one?  That she had walked the Fade as the magisters of Old Tevinter and stood upon the obsidian cobblestones of the Black City?  It sounded like lunacy.  They would commit her back into the Fade-lock before she even finished her tale.  They weren't ready to hear what had really happened, and Solona wasn't certain enough about any of it to attempt to tell it.  Given time, perhaps.  But not now. 

Maybe it was the absurdity of her day that dazed Solona, but before she could even consider trying to slip away from the interrogation, she found herself seated in the chair, the cold of it seeping through her clothes.  With her aged mentor towering over her left side, and her former lover sagging to her right, Solona tried to remember Leliana's stories of spying in grand courts.  The trick to lying was supposedly to tell the truth - or at least, as much truth as possible - to hide the small deception within the shocking truth.

"It was a spirit," she said, hands clenched in her lap.  "A powerful spirit," she added, reassuring herself that was not a lie.  "He felt my ...  distress, and opened a ... portal to come to my aid."

Carefully, she wove a tale of half-truths about a benevolent spirit that whisked her away into a pocket realm to heal her.  As she spoke,  she chanced glancing between the pair, uncertain if it was working at all.  She swallowed down her doubts.  "He saved my life," she concluded, uncertain of the truth of it.

The corners of  Wynne's mouth drew into a hard line.  "And that was it?"

Solona shrugged, feigning ease at it.  "More or less," she answered.  "He healed me.  We spoke of the pocket while I recovered, and then he returned me."

"Where is it now?"

She shrugged again.  "Back in the pocket  or perhaps back to the Fade - I don't really understand how it all worked."

"And you didn't think to ask?"

"I was ... it had ... you see...,"   she stammered as she pushed through the rapidly tangling thicket of lies.  "I was in _shock,_ "  was where she landed.  "I was mid-trauma ," she bit back at them, gesturing downwards.  Through the side of her eyes, she caught Alistair's cringe.  She charged on.  "I'm sorry that I didn't have the foresight to take notes .  Next time I'll have a proper list of questions ready." 

The silence that answered was made thick of skepticism.   
  
"Why is this so unbelievable to you all?" Solona demanded.  As before, she balanced her lies with the truth: her indignation was feign, but her exhaustion was real.  She turned to her mentor.   "Wynne, you of all people should understand.  Maker, your spirit is just as unlikely as my own."

The creases upon Wynne's forehead deepened.  "My spirit never kidnapped me from the moral realms."

"Yes, but you're not a Warden.  You've never been shot through the stomach and then carried off a tower by a witch-cum-dragon.  You've never killed an Archdemon and never _been killed by_ an Archdemon.  We're no strangers to unimaginable events and being whisked off by a spirit isn't even among the top five strangest we've seen in the last year."

Although she may not like it, Wynne appeared to relent.  "Very well, to the Infirmary then."

Grand show of confidence expended, it was then that Solona began to flounder.  "Oh, no, I'm fine, really.  It looks much worse -"

"Listen here, young lady," Wynne demanded.  "I spent a month nursing you back from Death's door and then another weaning you off lyrium.  I did not do all that just so you can die of infection and foolishness now.  Do you understand?" 

Solona  hung her head.  After a Blight, an Archdemon, a civil war and even the recent shocking revelations, somehow Wynne could still make her feel like a Junior Apprentice in the Circle again.  "Yes, Enchanter," she mumbled.

As she stood, Alistair stumbled to join them.  "I'm coming with you," he insisted.

"That won't be necessary."  Solona's reply was short and perhaps colder than she expected.

"You're in shock," he insisted.  "Sol, our child ... you ... " he reached for her.  "You shouldn't be alone."

She brushed away his hand.  It had already been an exhausting day for the young warden.  She had walked in the Fade - met a spirit that claimed to be both her son and an Old God.  All Solona wanted was a moment of peace to unpack it all.  Having Alistair trail along while Wynne completed her examination would only draw out the already uncomfortable process.  "It's nothing.  It happens all the time.  It's simpler this way," she tried to explain.  The coldness in her own voice came as a surprise.  Why did she sound so suddenly callous?

Alistair looked horrified.  "' _Simpler this way'_?!  Maker, Solona," he exclaimed.  "It's _our_ _child_ you're talking about."

"It wasn't though.  Not yet.  And now it won't be."  She dug in.  "It's simpler this way."

Alistair's jaw opened and closed a few times, too stunned at her heartlessness to answer.  Yet, instead of shouting or crying, he did something far worse: he stayed silent, turned on heel, and marched out of the room, his fists tight at his sides.

Solona too made to leave, only to have Wynne grab her shoulder and steer her in the opposite direction.

"Infirmary.  Now," she demanded.

Solona bit her tongue at any complaints; there was no arguing  with the old woman when she was in a fury.  And so she followed Wynne to her commandeered infirmary and into a back room in silence; the senior enchanter barred the door behind them.  She submitted to Wynne's examination without further protest, lying silent upon thin bed.  The process was ... _uncomfortable._

When she was done, the enchanter confirmed that the child was lost, but that Solona should make a full recovery.

Solona nodded, smoothed down her robes and rose from the bed.  As she made her way to the door, Wynne's words stopped her.

"You are lying to me."

Solona turned back to find the woman's stare hard and unforgiving. 

"I don't know what exactly, or why, but you are lying,"  Wynne accused.

"I - " Solona began, only to be hushed by the other woman's gesture.

"No,"  Wynne warned.  "Do not speak yet.  You're a Warden; you have secrets that you must keep.  But you will not _lie_ to me."  She stepped forward to look Solona hard in her eyes.  "So, it's your choice.  You can either tell me the truth, or hold your tongue and swallow those lies."  She crossed her arms before her.  "Now, do you have anything to say?"

Solona could only shake her head in reply.

"Very well.  But there is one more thing," Wynne cautioned.  "I have followed you across the Thedas, tended your wounds, and nursed you back to life more times than I count," she began. 

Solona nodded.  There was no denying it, she owed Wynne her life.

"And for this, I have asked for nothing in return.  As I said, I will let you keep your secrets - _your lies_ \- and I will ask for nothing but this," Wynne warned.  Her eyes were hard as she made her demand, "You will let him mourn this."

"What?"  The request caught Solona off guard.

"You will let Alistair mourn the loss of his child.  You may not have wanted it, but Alistair did.  So will you let him mourn."

 

* * *

 

After having parted ways with Wynne and a few more harsh words of warning, Solona sat alone in her room at the Warden's Compound, her only companions the broken shards of the door and the damn bloodied sheets.  She had spent the last hour craving peace and solitude, yet now that she had it, she found it hollow.  What was she supposed to do now? 

Well, there really was nothing to do but get on with life, she supposed. 

And so, with little ceremony, Solona tossed the soiled sheets and shift into an empty linens basket and carried them from her rooms.  The ridiculousness of the situation was not lost to her: she was the first mortal to walk the Fade since the days of Ancient Tevinter, and how would she spend the glorious hours after?  With laundry, of course. 

Nonetheless, scrubbing the russet stains gave Solona time to think, to consider the enormity of her day.  The feeling of soapy fabric running over the washboard and the soft splash of the water was a grounding comfort.   Solona had no doubts that she was still in some state of shock, but as with all things since leaving the suffocating safety of the Tower, there was no time to process it.  And so, it felt as though barely a breath passed before she left the quiet of the laundry and somehow found herself at the Royal Apartments.

A pair of guards watched her cautiously as she approached the heavy doors to Alistair's chambers.  She paused just before the threshold and looked to each. 

"The King is not to be disturbed."  The guardsman's voice was stern but not unkind.

" I'm sorry," Solona answered.  "I just need to speak with him for a moment.  Please."

"Apologies madam, but the King is not to be disturbed by anyone, for any reason," the guard repeated.

"Oh.  I see," she replied, her voice sounding uncharacteristically meek to her own ears.  With a stilted nod of thanks, she turned to slink away.  The feeling of guilt that welled up from her stomach was an unwelcome confusion.

The guard cleared his throat.  "Madam, you may recall, your chambers are _that_ way."  He nodded down the opposite direction.  The look in his eye tried to say something more.

Solona frowned for a moment before making sense of it: the Consort's Chambers.  The guard may have been ordered to stop any visitors from entering Alistair's rooms, but he would not prevent Solona from entering her own and then slipping through the connecting doors.  She nodded slowly back at the armored man, understanding.  "Thank you," she whispered.

The guard gave a slight nod, returning to stand at attention.

A few quick steps down the hall and around a bend led Solona back to the Consort's Chambers.  Another set of guards opened the doors for her with only a "Madam," of acknowledgement, and then closed them once more behind her.   

She had spent only the single afternoon there, but the room with its wide balcony overlooking the courtyard was familiar enough.  It was early evening now, the room filled with shadows as the sun settled below the city's skyline.  The candles and hearth were unlit; she was not expected.  With a flick of the wrist, they burst to flame and guided her onwards to the heavy doors across the room.

Her soft shoes carried her silently through a broad dressing room, and then into the King's bedchamber.  She came to a short stop there; before her, Alistair sat slouched on the window bench, a red flush painting his cheeks.  Solona stood in silence, her planned speech crumbling in her throat. 

"What?" he slurred, frowning as he spotted her.  "What are _you_ doing here?"  He took a long draw from the bottle clutched at his side.  "I told them no visitors," he mumbled to himself. 

"You're drunk."

"I'm allowed to be."

His scowl deepened as she approached.  "You shouldn't be here," he warned, but did not stop her as she pulled the bottle from his grip and set it back upon the table.

Solona wanted nothing more than to flee back out through the other chambers and into the night, but her promise to Wynne held her fast.  Ignoring the mixture of anger and fatigue that rose up into her throat, she turned to sit upon his bed.  Once she had toed off her shoes and tossed her outer robes over the back of a chair, Solona settled herself against the pillows, feeling more than a little foolish as she invited herself into a bed she had no desire to occupy.   She tried not to cringe under the weight of her old lover's glare.  "Alistair," she sighed.  "Come here."

He hesitated.  Even in the moon's pale light, she could see his throat clutch, his mouth open and close at words he could not find.  Finally, after drawing another pull from the bottle, he stood and silently made his way to the bed.  Seeing all the confused emotions pass over his face, Solona found she might yet have some sympathy for the man who broke her heart. 

She forced her breaths to come low and shallow when he joined her on the covers.  There were a few moments of clumsy shuffling until Alistair managed to settle his bulk against her.  She swallowed her objections when he slowly curled his large frame around her.  She did not pull away when his hand spread out low over her abdomen.   

Neither uttered a word.  Solona did not trust herself to speak.  She was still angry - still hurt and confused and consumed by the unending gale of emotions that coiled about in her stomach.  But for Wynne, and for the memory of what they once shared, she would give him this.  Placing a hand over his own, she stroked small circles upon  it.  She even let him kiss her, a single heartbroken press against her temple, his breath still thick with ale. 

"I wanted this," he mumbled.  "More than anything, I wanted this."

"I know," was the only answer Solona could offer.

Within a few quiet breaths, his eyes flickered close.  It did not take long for the alcohol in his blood to pull Alistair under sleep's veil. 

Tired though she was, through the dark hours of the night Solona remained awake.  She watched as the silent moon traversed the window pane, as stars grew bright and then faded.  When the first cracks of blue light pierced the sky, she came to a decision she had not even realized she was searching for. 

Though Alistair's hold upon her was heavy, she managed to wriggle free with little effort and - more importantly - without waking him.  Slipping onto the floor, she stood for a few silent moments at the bedside remembering what it was like to love and be loved  by the man before her.  How happy she had been.  How _alive_ she had been.

But that was a different life, before betrayal and heartbreak and spirits of Old Gods.

She dressed in silence, pulling the heavy robes over her shift, and running her fingers through the tangles in her hair.  Carrying her shoes, she slipped out the side door, strode through the Consort's Chambers, and did not stop until she reached the palace's main entrance.  She did not look back.

Solona stepped out into the streets of Denerim, the dawn's light soaking her through, a woman reborn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This was Part II of the chapter that took me two years to write ... Enjoy the biannual update! At least it's not a cliff-hanger this time?_


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